


A Year in Training

by Omi_Ohmy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Training, Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:40:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Ohmy/pseuds/Omi_Ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is finally living his dream and training as an Auror, but nothing seems to be going right: he’s just so angry all the time. And Draco Malfoy’s presence on the programme really isn’t helping with that, either.</p><p>Written for 2013 <a href="http://hd-remix.livejournal.com">hd_remix</a>. Remix of <a href="http://harrydraco.livejournal.com/7613192.html">Tension</a> by <a href="http://twilight-tones.livejournal.com/">twilight_tones</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Year in Training

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tension](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/19503) by twilight_tones. 



> There was so much packed into the original 300-word drabble that it took me a long time to unravel this story. I hope I’ve done it justice (and that it’s OK that I’ve stretched Harry’s professional status slightly). I’ve told a version of the wider story from Harry’s POV – one of many possibilities. Many thanks to birdsofshore and evilgiraff for prereading and betaing, and for helping me make this so much better than it would have been otherwise.
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. The original drabble _Tension_ is the work of [twilight_tones](http://twilight-tones.livejournal.com/).

# A Year in Training

It wasn’t a big hill, but it was satisfying to climb anyway. Auror training was still weeks away, and this was one of their first chances to be alone together. Harry pulled Ginny up, her hair flying round her face in the warm summer breeze. They sat at the top, pointing out the houses they recognised in the village below, then settling into a companionable silence. Harry didn’t know what training was going to be like, but at that moment he finally felt happy. Away from the Burrow he could relax, and he hadn’t seen much of Ginny while she’d been finishing her last year at school.

Lying with his head in her lap, Harry looked up and smiled.

“You’re not a schoolgirl any more,” he said, thinking of exactly what a bit more freedom and a room of his own would mean for them.

“Hmm.” Ginny seemed distracted, but then she looked down at Harry and gave him a small half-smile. “No, I’m not. All grown up now.”

Birds moved through the sky, high overhead. In the distance, the faint drone of a Muggle aeroplane could be heard, its silver body flashing in the sun.

“Harry.” Ginny’s voice interrupted Harry’s quiet tracking of the plane, and he looked back at her, hair pushed behind her ears, biting her lip and looking serious.

“Ginny,” Harry replied, as solemnly as he could. 

“Don't do that.” Ginny ran a hand across Harry's head. “Don't mock me, when all I want to do is talk.” Above them, the sky was clear and blue, thin clouds high up and bright in the summer sun. Harry closed his eyes, content to feel her fingers in his hair, and relaxing into the warmth of the day.

“It's too nice a day to talk,” said Harry. “Or think. I just want to lie here and fall asleep.”

“I'm serious.” The hand stopped moving, and then Harry found his head pushed off Ginny's lap. Sitting up to see what was wrong he saw that Ginny had drawn her knees up to her chin, and was hugging herself close. He tried to read the emotions playing across her face, but there was too much there. She was tense though, he could see that. 

“You are, aren't you?”

She nodded, reminding him of how shy she had been when she was younger.

“I– I've been thinking,” she said. “It's been– since the war—”

“I thought we weren't going to mention it?” said Harry. “Just for one day. It's so beautiful today.”

“I can't do that. I can't switch it off, like you can—”

“I don't forget about it! It's always there. I just– can't we enjoy the sunshine, for once?”

Ginny shook her head. “This isn't about the sunshine, or about the war, Harry.” She paused, and reached out to take his hand. He offered it, quietly. “This is about us.”

“Us?”

“Us.” She took a deep breath. “You– you were my hero, for so very long. Before I'd even met you,” she said with a soft smile. Fear prickled at the edge of Harry's thoughts. It took him a moment to work out why: she sounded so sad.

“Ginny, are you—”

“Shhh, let me finish, please.” She squeezed his hand. “This isn't easy to say and I want to get it all out.” Harry's heart started a dizzying fall at her words. “When we got together it was wonderful. Like I'd been invisible, and suddenly you could see me. And then you pushed me away and left me behind. I– I know why you did it, but it hurt, it did. It was as if... even though you could see me, I was still somehow a precious thing to put away. So maybe you didn't really see me, after all.”

“Gin—” If he could only get her to stop talking, then she couldn’t say anything more. 

“And that year was hard, Harry. Hogwarts wasn't a nice place to be. And then... Lavender—” she shuddered, and bit down on thin lips, as she remembered, “—and Fred.” She gave the sad little smile she always did when she thought of her brother. “You came back, and this time you were everyone's hero. I know how much you've been through, I do, and how much you still carry with you. How much we needed this, us, at first.”

“But....”

“But.” There was a finality to the way she said the word.

They sat opposite each other, not talking. Harry let go of Ginny's hand, and she hugged her legs again. A thousand things sped through Harry's mind: the way Ginny threw her head back to laugh, showing all her teeth as she did; Voldemort's final spell rebounding; the way Ginny kept him from feeling he was drowning in everything that had happened; the gentle touches and words they'd shared; and his parents smiling at him from the mirror of Erised. Just out of reach.

“All I want is for us to be happy,” he said.

“I know. Me too,” said Ginny.

“But that doesn’t mean with me, does it?” He knew he shouldn't ask, he knew how desperate it sounded, but he had to. He needed to hear the answer.

“I'm sorry, Harry, but no.” The words stung. Harry pressed his hand to his eyes, then pushed it back, through his hair. “Your version of happiness is peace and quiet,” she said. “I can see that, I can understand why. I bet you wanted—” she broke off. “I bet you wanted what my family have. Had,” she quietly amended. Harry couldn't say anything, because, yes, he'd dreamed about a home, and soft white arms, and a family.

“Well, I want something different.” Harry looked up. Ginny's eyes were on the far horizon. “I want freedom, and wide new skies. I don't want to be precious and hidden, and I don't want to be tied to anyone. Not even you.” She took a deep breath. “Right now, I just want to fly.”

“Fly?”

“I've been offered a position with the Holyhead Harpies. Reserve Chaser.”

Harry stared at her. “Since when?”

“Since they saw me fly, at school, OK?”

“So you're dumping me to go and play Quidditch?”

“No!” She tried to hold his hand again, but this time Harry pushed her away. “It's not like that.”

“If they hadn't made the offer, would we be having this conversation today?”

Ginny's silence was answer enough for Harry. He had made his way back down the hill alone, and nothing had really got any better since that day.

:::::

The Auror training building was a squat grey building like any other in central London, although it actually bordered wizarding London at its back. It looked anonymous enough, and was free of any identifying plaques or signs. The upper floors housed the tiny bedrooms the trainees were allocated. The rooms were arranged in corridors, small kitchens and bathrooms in the middle, staircases at either end. There was also a canteen and a sad-looking common room, along with a floor of offices for their teachers. Some were part-time Aurors, some devoted all their time to training the next generation.

A couple of large training rooms, used for more large-scale exercises and simulations, and smaller teaching rooms were located on the underground floors. Stealth and Tracking (John Williamson), Concealment and Disguise (Lara Twist), Poisons and Antidotes (Kevin Savage), Practical Defence (Hestia Jones), Knowledge and Theory of the Dark Arts (Sarah Proudfoot), Advanced Charms (Bertram Aubrey): Harry had read through the list of classes and teachers over and over, excited to see what each was like. He knew that there were further courses, added in later years, in things like Team Ops, Individual Ops and Strategy, but what they’d be covering as first-years sounded like more than enough to get started.

The training building didn’t exactly have the warmth of Hogwarts, and the one common room they’d been shown on their tour at the beginning of the year was empty – “Oh, most people just head out to the Leaky or Apparate home or to see their friends,” the older trainee showing them round had said – but it _was_ a place with a more serious purpose in mind, and Harry found it all exciting to think about. For the first time in years he would be finally following his own path, no destiny or prophecy hanging over his head: finally getting a chance to pursue a long-held dream.

The first time he sat in the small office of his mentor, Hestia Jones, Harry couldn’t quite escape the nagging feeling that he knew her somehow. But then he’d met more Aurors than the average eighteen-year old, so he tried instead to focus on looking interested, and not as if he’d spent the past three weeks hiding from his friends as he went over and over his conversation with Ginny on the hill.

“Now then, Harry, I thought it would be a good idea for us to have a little chat, before the year gets started properly. First of all, please do call me Hestia. You’re an adult now, and I think we should all call each other by our names, OK?” He smiled, and she smiled back. This was certainly different from school. It reminded him more of the Order. “You’re going to be busy and tired, because we will work you hard, but I hope that these three years speed by. I’m sure that you’re going to make a great Auror.”

Harry nodded, having heard these sentiments from almost every person on the training programme already. Robards had turned up and given them his Head Auror speech, full of hints of Dark magic, mysteries and glory, which had done little to help Harry’s mood. The words had sounded hollow. Robards had patted Harry on the back afterwards, and all the trainees stared as he told Harry that he would be treated like anyone else, and how pleased they were that he’d decided to take up the training. Harry cringed just thinking about it. 

He realised that Hestia was waiting for a response. “I’m, er, I’m going to try my best,” he said. “I’ve wanted to be an Auror for years now.”

“Yes, so I understand.” Hestia smiled, then hesitated, picking up the parchment with all of Harry’s details recorded in small, neat script. “I feel I should say this, because it doesn’t feel right not to mention it: I don’t know if you remember, Harry, but I– I met your aunt and uncle last year.”

Oh. The empty feeling that Harry was trying so hard to ignore grew a little more, inside of him. Of course, that’s where he knew her from, she was in the Order – he hadn’t realised she was an Auror, at the time – and she’d helped them move to the safe house.

“I remember. It– they—” He didn’t know what he could say that would ever sum up his time with the Dursleys.

“No need to explain,” said Hestia, with a wave of her hand. “Believe me, I saw quite enough.”

An awkward silence filled the room. This was moving into territory that Harry made an effort to ignore: he didn’t really like to think about the Dursleys, let alone talk about them. He hadn’t thought of them as family for years now.

:::::

“Harry!” Ron came bounding in, not bothering to knock. They might not be sharing a room any more, but he still treated the tiny space as if they were. He sat in Harry’s chair – the only one in the room – spinning it slightly from side to side as he talked. “You’d never guess who my mentor is. It’s only Savage. Kevin Savage! Isn’t that great?”

Envy made Harry’s shoulders tighten, but he managed to summon what he hoped looked like a smile, and sat back on his bed. “Brilliant! So did he show you his Animagus form?” A few of the trainees had been talking the night before – Harry and Neville, along with two girls he vaguely remembered from Hogwarts, Su Li and Megan Jones, crowded into Ron’s room and drinking Firewhisky out of mugs – about how Savage’s was supposed to be a Siberian tiger. 

“No, I still don’t know if it’s a tiger or not. But he told me that he’d worked with Charlie before, and that he could see that I’d be fine. Oh, Harry, it was so good. He even gave me some Firewhiskey to drink.”

Harry listened to Ron as he described exactly how cool Savage was. As if a bit of metal through your eyebrow was the only qualification for being a good Auror. The words ran into each other, and Harry wondered when he’d stopped caring so much. 

“—and he said that he’s only ever had a 100% pass rate amongst the trainees he’s mentored.” Ron stopped, and pushed Harry with his foot. “Are you listening?”

“What? Yes, of course. 100% pass rate, brilliant.”

“So who’d you get?”

Harry thought of his mentor, rosy-cheeked and calm. “Hestia Jones. She seemed OK,” he said, deciding to omit the whole she-knows-the-Dursleys bit. He only wanted to get stuck into the course and not think about the past. Not his family, not the war, and certainly not Ginny. Something of his thoughts must have crossed across his face though, because Ron scooted the chair closer to the bed and tilted his head, as if considering something. 

“Cheer up, mate, we’re finally here! Although,” Ron grinned, “I never thought that Auror training would be a chance to have a break from actually chasing Dark wizards.” 

A smile worked its way onto Harry’s face. 

“This is our chance to let our hair down.” Ron coughed. “So to speak.”

“I know, I know,” said Harry. “I’m just– I’m not quite in the mood for partying right now?”

“Why not—“ Ron broke off as he remembered, and he somehow managed to look embarrassed and uncomfortable all at the same time. Face heated, he mumbled, “You hadn’t really seen her for a year—“

Harry glared at Ron. “Yes, I know all the reasons your sister decided to dump me, thanks, Ron.” He knew how sharp and angry he sounded, but he couldn’t help it: Ron’s words had managed to release all the feelings of resentment he’d been trying so hard to ignore. “She was quite clear about them. I don’t really want to go through them all again, if you don’t mind.”

“I didn’t mean to—“

“What you would you know? You and Hermione are all happy-ever-after.”

Ron looked stung, and Harry felt even worse. What was he doing, having a go at Ron? He sighed. It was just typical: he finally got to where he’d wanted to be for years, and it had all turned to shit. He wasn’t even managing to be a good friend. He was surprised when Ron spoke again.

“I was going to say that Nev and I were going for a drink at the Leaky—“

“I don’t think I’m really up to it.” Harry couldn’t bear the idea of everyone crowding around, having fun as if there weren’t any missing faces in the room. He also didn’t want to have to face anyone’s questions about him and Ginny. He picked up the Quidditch magazine that he’d been reading before Ron had burst in, and traced his finger over the lettering on the cover. Ron stayed in the chair, but looked the other way. Harry wasn’t sure if he was going to spring up and leave, and he realised that he didn’t want Ron to go. 

“I’m sorry, I’m really not feeling too sociable at the moment.” He paused. “I’m sure I’ll cheer up soon enough, though. Once we start our training sessions.” He offered up a hopeful smile, and was gratified to see one on Ron’s face in return.

“Well, they’re not meeting up until later, so I can stay here and chat for a while,” said Ron. “What have you got there? _Quidditch Weekly_?”

“It’s got reviews for all the new brooms—“ Before Harry could finish, Ron had leapt off the chair: not out of the door, but to sit next to Harry and snatch the magazine from his hands.

“Let’s see then.”

Harry relaxed into the company of his friend, and decided that everything was going to be OK, after all.

:::::

Everything flared red as a Stunner flew overhead. Automatically, he ducked and scanned the training room for a caster. It was spelled to semi-darkness, crates stacked high and shadows everywhere. Harry edged back round the boxes at his left. This was good: the witch or wizard had foolishly revealed their location. Deciding to take a risk, he moved out again, this time noting the direction of origin the next time a Stunner lit the room red. 

“ _Diffindo!”_ he called out, aiming his wand at the tall tower of boxes in the far-right corner. A box near the base exploded, spraying wood and clouds of herbs around it. With a series of crashes as the crates hit the neighbouring piles, the tower collapsed. Dust obscured Harry's vision even further, but as it cleared, he looked around the room once more to check for movement, then came out from spot behind the boxes, aiming to move a little closer.

He heard it rather than saw it – the curse travelling towards him from the left-hand side of the room. It sent a brief shock through his body as he was hit, but then everything went black.

Harry opened his eyes to see Hestia Jones, Draco Malfoy and Ron standing over him. Draco Malfoy – the surprise extra trainee who had appeared on their second day of training.

Ron's hair was filled with dust and pale flakes of dried... sage, judging by the smell. Ron rubbed one shoulder and winced. So he'd been halfway right, at least. He felt his shoulders sag as he realised that by this stage, that wouldn't matter. “One mistake is all it takes,” as they were so often told.

“You know what I'm going to say, don't you?” Hestia managed to look both stern and understanding, and as usual the combination made Harry's guts twist. If only he could hate her, as he'd hated Snape. But then that was a dark path to start down, because thoughts of Snape filled him with regret, sharp and hollow. It merely mingled with the general disappointment of failure, again: he had done badly in his last five training simulations in a row. Six, including this one.

“Constant vigilance, I know.” Harry said, as he sat up properly. Moody's words had been repeated endlessly in their Practical Defence and Stealth and Tracking classes over the past ten weeks – Williamson, in particular, fond of booming the words out in his sessions – and he was sick of them. He'd lived with constant vigilance for so long, sometimes he dreamed of not having to check over his shoulder, or be suspicious of every person he met. But if he wanted to be an Auror, this is what he had to do. He took a steadying breath, and made sure his voice was level when he spoke. “I really only thought there was one person in here.”

“Clearly. Harry, this isn't the first time.” Hestia shook her head, and sighed. She paused for a moment before saying anything else, seeming to weigh up the options. “We're going to have to run a few more of these simulations to get your skills up.” 

Frustration grew into awkwardness: Harry didn't want to talk about this in front of Malfoy, of all people. He wanted a quiet chat in her office, but he sensed that the time for those had passed, at some point after the fourth or fifth time he'd not managed anything near a successful attempt in any of the weekly Practical Defence simulations. 

“I know.” Harry shook his head to Ron's offer of a hand up, and he stood, wishing to be anywhere other than in this training room. Hestia watched him, her gaze sharp as he brushed down his robes.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Hestia didn't need to speak loudly to be heard. She never did.

Harry's stomach dropped. She wasn't really going to make him do this here, was she? Now? He glanced round the room. Ron looked torn between wanting to stay for Harry, and wanting to run away. Malfoy was perched on the edge of a crate and brushing his robes down, pretending not to listen. Vain git. But then Hestia cleared her throat, and Harry realised she was still waiting for an answer. Oh well: in for a Knut, in for a Galleon.

“I didn't know there were two people in the room with me,” he said again. It was mortifying, actually, how obvious his mistake was, and the realisation didn't really do anything to make this any easier. He forced himself to maintain eye contact with Hestia. “I– I assumed it was only me.”

“You didn't use any magic to check for other people,” a voice called out from behind Ron. It was Malfoy, who was looking intently at Harry, frowning. “I've noticed, you seem to rely on your senses more than magic.”

Annoyance prickled through Harry at Malfoy’s criticism. It didn’t matter if it was true or not, he just didn’t want Malfoy to be involved in this discussion. Harry bit his lip on the inside, determined that he wouldn’t say anything yet, and his eyes returned to Hestia, to see how she responded. 

“I know this is hard to hear, Harry, but this is Auror training, not school, and you should be able to listen to your fellow trainees,” said Hestia. And suddenly Harry understood why this wasn't a cosy chat in her office: she wanted this, she wanted Malfoy to say this. She was Malfoy’s mentor too, and Harry got the impression that she liked him. For some reason. “Draco has a point: in a group you always rely on other trainees for things like magical reconnaissance, and focus on the action yourself. You can be a valuable member of a team, but to be a competent Auror, you need to be able to handle a situation like this on your own.”

Harry felt a sting behind his eyes, because he knew that she was right. He just... he'd always been part of a team, he'd always had people around him to help, and he found that if he tried to remember every little detail and step in the stupid Auror handbook, he'd never actually do anything. He hung his head, not trusting himself not to say something he shouldn't.

The disappointment of failing yet another simulation burned, and he was in no mood for conversation. He endured the rest of Hestia's talk on being a 'team player', face heated from it being witnessed by Ron and Malfoy. After Hestia left, an awkward silence filled the room until Harry hurried away before Ron could suggest a post-training drink. Harry would rather go flying, to be honest: he needed to clear his head awhile, not make it even more muddled. There was no flying though, not in London. Too busy, too many Muggles.

Harry focused on marching out of the building as fast as he could. He made for one of the quieter side exits, hoping not to bump into anyone he knew. Shoving the door open harder than he would do normally helped his mood a little. It was cold outside, but he sucked the cool air into his lungs as if he'd been deprived of oxygen. The ache of it also helped, as did kicking a wall. Harry went to his favourite place to mope: his room at the training centre was no good, only giving the semblance of privacy.

So much for being the big hero.

:::::

Walking through the gloomy rooms of Grimmauld Place, Harry wallowed in the sense of decay around him. It was good to have this space to explore. He never thought it would happen, but he’d got used to more than a cupboard, and wanted rooms to walk through, space to call home. The Trainee accommodation was spartan and impersonal, the Common Room cold and unused. He missed Gryffindor Tower, and he missed the bustle of the Burrow. Looking around him though, he didn’t know if he’d ever be able to live here, with the stiff formality of the rooms and the distinct Pureblood vibes, but at least it was his, and an escape from everything else.

He knew that Kreacher had tried to make it shine with the pride of its former years, but it still remained the rather oppressive house of a Pureblood family. Being in the house didn’t inspire any feelings of peace, far from it. Harry came here on bad days not to calm down, but so that he could be as angry as he felt inside. Harry looked at Sirius’s old room and he hated it. He hated Sirius for dying and leaving him alone, and he hated himself for having led Sirius to his doom. He hated the stupid Black family for being so stuck up, and on particularly bad days Harry enjoyed nothing more than having a screaming row with the hideous portrait in the hall.

Today though, Harry stopped at the tapestry of the family tree. He laughed to himself: all these generations of Blacks, and now there were no more. His eyes rested on the name _Draco Malfoy_. Stupid perfect trainee Malfoy. Well, Harry also remembered stupid ‘my father says’ Marked Malfoy even if everyone else on the course seemed impressed enough by his super-Auror skills to have forgotten him.

A horrible seed of unease grew in Harry, because although no one hexed Malfoy on sight, no one ever squashed into his room to talk to him late at night, or made him cups of tea when he was studying. But yet they still all listened when he spoke in class, and talked incessantly about his tracking skills, or his ability to name more than a hundred poisons. So Harry ignored the small voice that said maybe Malfoy didn’t have it that easy, and that it wasn’t simply a case of Malfoy preferring his own company. The thought that Malfoy was alone actually filled Harry with a vindictive sense of satisfaction which he tried not to dwell on, as it also left him feeling a little ashamed. He hated that he could resent another person so much, but he did, there was no getting away from it. Why _should_ life be easy for Malfoy?

Harry’s thoughts returned to his training. How had Neville coped with being seen as a bumbling idiot for so long? No one would say it now, and he seemed to have witches throwing themselves at him, if the snogs at the back of the Leaky were anything to go by, but Harry wondered sometimes if Neville had felt like this at school. This horrible mix of rage and shame and disappointment, all tight in his gut. 

The loud ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall was Harry’s only company as he made his way back to the front door. With Kreacher at Hogwarts for now, and Harry living in the Auror trainee accommodation for the next three years, any decisions about the house would keep: he had other things to think about now. 

Turning once he was out on the street, Harry looked up at number twelve, with its tall windows and many floors, and tried to picture it as the family home he’d once hoped it would be, with his own horde of red-haired children. All he could see though, was the house that Sirius had hated, and the tension of Order meetings. The bare trees and rain-slicked pavements merely added to the feeling of gloom. Without looking back again, Harry walked off down the street, back to his miserable little room with the other trainees.

:::::

Harry was standing by The Burrow’s kitchen window, looking at the rising light of a bleak winter’s dawn while he waited for the kettle to boil, when Ginny walked in, still rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“Oh,” she said, stopping by the door.

“Yeah,” said Harry. He could hear the bubbling of the water beginning to boil. “I couldn’t _not_ come for Christmas.”

“I know. Thanks.” Ginny wrapped her arms around herself. “For mum: I know it matters to her, a lot.” The sound of the kettle’s whistle made Ginny jump, and Harry moved the kettle off the stove.

“Tea?”

Ginny nodded, and sat down at the table, her hands pulling down the sleeves of her pyjama top. Harry focused on getting the tea made. It was only when he sat down that he realised how strange this was.

“How’s training? Ron raves about his and Neville’s mentor – what’s his name, Savage? – in his owls.”

Of course Ron owled Ginny. But it still felt like a betrayal.“It’s OK.”

Ginny’s smile faltered as it became apparent that Harry wasn’t going to say anything more. She took a sip from her tea.

Above them, the sounds of someone waking up could be heard: muffled footsteps, pipes clanging and old timber creaking. In comparison the silence in the room grew oppressive, and Harry felt compelled to fill the silence. “I mean… it’s different from lessons at school, or even when Ron and Hermione and I were hunting the Horcruxes. It’s… it’s hard work.”

A nod was Ginny’s only response, and Harry didn’t miss the tiny amount of hurt in her eyes at the mention of the Horcrux hunt. It had shut her out of his life just as much as Quidditch had shut him out of hers.

Harry stared at his tea, trying to think of something to say. “How’s life with the Harpies?”

“Oh, it’s great!” A genuine smile lit Ginny’s face, and instantly, Harry missed having it in his life. But he tried hard not to show how he felt. “I’m learning so much, and I’ve already played in one match, when Wilda was off sick.” Enthusiasm filled Ginny’s words as she talked about the team, and Harry shrank into himself. Her happiness was hard to bear, and Harry was filled with bitterness. It shamed him that he couldn’t be happy for her, but the break-up was still fresh for him, and he resented how quickly she seemed to have moved on. It made him question how real their relationship had ever been.

When Molly appeared in the kitchen and the conversation turned to Ginny’s plans for moving out officially, Harry slunk out of the room. 

He remained quiet over the week’s stay, trying not to notice Ginny laughing and relaxed and seemingly unaffected by their break up. But what he couldn’t admit – barely to himself, let alone anyone else – was that a great deal of his quiet mood was also because she was so happy with her Quidditch team. He was envious of her passion, for having found a place she truly fitted in. Harry had thought that _he’d_ be the one raving about how he spent his days, but the more he heard Ron talking about bloody Savage (Savage! He was ridiculous, although if Harry had been called Kevin maybe he would have stuck to ‘Savage’, too), or Hermione going on about wizarding law, the more he felt on the outside. He just didn’t care as much as they did. He wondered sometimes what was wrong with him, but he tried not to dwell on it: mostly he tried not to think about anything at all.

:::::

“I can’t do it!” Harry threw the book down in disgust.

“Watch it, mate,” said Ron, looking mildly shocked. “Imagine what Hermione would say if she saw you flinging books around like that.” Harry noticed though that Ron didn’t move from where he was sprawled across Harry’s bed, leafing through the January issue of _The Quibbler._ He smiled: lazy git. Their rooms were next to each other, and they often sat together in one of the rooms like this. It gave Harry, and, he suspected Ron too, a warm feeling of familiarity.

“Yes, well, she’s not here. Unlike some people, I don’t spend all my time imagining that she is.”

Ron refused to rise to the bait, his stare only becoming a little harder until Harry relented.

“Oh, OK. Sorry. But I still can’t do it.”

“You can’t expect everything to come easily.”

“I know. But I’ve been trying to get this spell right all week, and all I’ve managed so far is a shadow.”

Ron looked at the space it had occupied. “It did look….” He paused. “Well, a bit like Nev’s gran, to be honest.”

“I know! Nothing like me. Or even a person, really.” As soon as Harry had found out about the Doppelganger Charm, a variation of the Copying charm, only legal for Aurors to cast, he had wanted to learn it. Unfortunately, his efforts so far had been less than successful. If he was honest with himself, getting this right was about more than learning a cool spell. After a pretty dismal first term, he felt he had something to prove.

Each time he met with Hestia, she was... understanding. More and more so. And he hated it. First it had been “Well, not everyone masters the art of concealment on their first attempt, Harry,” and then “I realise you must find this hard, I know you’ve not had the most supportive of environments, in the past” and he just knew that his aunt and uncle had made it clear how they felt about magic. He shuddered to think of how Vernon must have spoken to Hestia and the other Order members he’d met. Harry felt trapped, but she was always so nice about everything, what could he do?

And then, of course, there was Malfoy. The last time Harry had seen him before training started was at the trials, where he’d been pale and lost-looking. Harry had testified about the night that Dumbledore had died, how Malfoy had lowered his wand, and about how Malfoy had failed to identify him at the manor. So Harry, unlike many others, had not been surprised that his sentencing had been lenient. 

When Malfoy had walked into the main teaching room for the first time, it had still been a bit of a shock. Malfoy now wore his hair short, and dressed in Muggle clothes. Rumours flew around about him: he'd been disowned, or his parents were in hiding, or he had been living as a Muggle, or he'd been in St Mungo's for unspecified reasons, or he was some Death Eater double-agent. Harry knew that actually he’d been performing some form of community service, but he didn’t say anything. Malfoy ignored them all: the whispers, the glances, the names. The fire in his eyes merely burned a little brighter, and he seemed focused entirely on the training.

And then, in the most galling development of all, it appeared that the more Harry tried, the more mistakes he seemed to make, while Malfoy out-performed everyone. He barely spoke to anyone, and would just turn up each and every day, and do brilliantly. Harry had overheard Su and Megan talking about him, insinuating that Malfoy was cheating or buying his way through the course, but you only had to look at him, wand in hand, tracing a line of fire through the air or turning out a perfect antidote to some poison or another, to know that he was simply good at everything.

Harry tried to put thoughts of Malfoy out of his mind. Just because he came top of everything didn’t mean anything. He looked at the mirror set up in the corner of his room, and focused on his reflection, trying to take in every detail of his appearance, then he closed his eyes and pointed his wand beside him, concentrating hard on his sense of his own physical presence in the room. The Gemino Curse simply made a copy, but this version, copying a person, was a little more complex and shadowy in its application. It was impossible for the copy to be made permanent, and it was only at best like a shadow, no matter how substantial it looked. But still, to copy yourself? There were, Harry had discovered, plenty of areas were the boundary between what was considered Light and Dark was blurred.

His next attempt did look a little more like him, but vanished almost immediately into the air, like a ghost who didn’t want to be there.

“That was a bit better,” said Ron, from behind his paper.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” asked Harry. “It’s a bit… unnerving having you sitting there like that.”

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but I, er, I’ve already cast the Doppelganger Charm.”

“You have? Let’s see then.”

Ron stood, pulling his wand out, pointing it at himself and tracing the complicated star-like shape necessary for the spell. “ _Gemino Hominum_ ,” he whispered, and another Ron appeared next to him, flickering for a second before stabilising so that there were two identical figures standing with a look of concentration on their faces. Ron – the real one – frowned, and flicked his wand to the side, and his doppelganger walked across the room. The effort of casting the spell was obvious as Ron let out a long huff of breath as the spell ended. 

Harry stared at the space the Ron-copy had been in. Silence settled between them as Harry registered that his friend had mastered the most complex charm on the syllabus for the whole year, and he hadn’t. Some part of him had been hoping that they would muddle through together, laugh off their failure and get there together in the end. But now… now he had a feeling that he was one of only a few who still hadn’t mastered it.

“I– that’s amazing,” he said. “A bit creepy, too.”

Ron shrugged. “It would be dead useful out in the field though. What I want to know is what’s the counter-spell?”

“Counter-spell?”

“Well, there must be a charm to reveal if someone’s real or not. Otherwise it would be banned, I reckon.”

Harry felt a bit lost. Ron was miles ahead of him on this. Sighing, he took one more look at the spell book lying on the floor and closed his eyes again. This time, Harry only managed to conjure a vaguely Harry-like outline, and he was grateful for the way it disappeared instantly.

“Maybe you should get some pointers from, er, someone.” Ron was perched on the end of Harry’s bed.

“Someone?” Harry asked, but he knew who Ron was going to name. Ron suddenly became interested in fetching the book from where Harry had left it on the floor. As he straightened up he caught Harry’s eye.

“Oh, you know who I’m going to say! I saw him, practising the spell, over and over again, and he helped me with it, OK? He doesn’t say much, but he’s OK.”

“OK?” Harry couldn’t believe his ears. It seemed like only the other day that Ron had been calling Malfoy “that pointy git” and on the days he got letters from home “that bloody Death Eater.”

“You’re the one that spoke at his trial.” 

“I know but… that was only fair. Didn’t mean I wanted to have to train with him. Or go ask him for tips, thank you very much. I haven’t forgotten what he was like in school. Have you?”

“He’s not like he was, you know. There’s none of that bloody awful _crowing_ he used to do, for one. And I saw him talking to Nev the other day, and neither of them had wands drawn.” 

Neville didn’t talk much about his last year at school, but when he did it had sounded pretty grim. And now he was all friendly with Malfoy? Harry didn’t understand. Rather than reply, he turned round and tried to cast the spell again, the words coming out more forcefully than strictly necessary. Sometime after his fourth or fifth attempt he realised that Ron had left the room.

Harry kept trying but it was obvious that he wasn’t getting anywhere, the shapes as formless and insubstantial as ever. Seeing that Ron had left his paper behind, Harry decided that reading _The Quibbler_ would be much more interesting. The disappointment he felt in giving up, yet again, merely folded up into all the layers of disappointment he already carried with him.

:::::

On a cold January day, Harry walked into the Ministry canteen, rubbing his hands together to try to warm them a little, and hoping for a hot drink and something to eat. There was a group of Auror trainees at a table at the back, which wasn’t a surprise as the food was cheap and a little better than the stuff they had on offer back at the trainees’ canteen. Neville’s height and Ron’s red hair stood out clearly amongst them. As he queued up, Harry looked around the room and straightened up a little as he noticed Hermione, deep in conversation with Lavender. A churning sensation began in his stomach, settling into a general feeling of discomfort as he paid for his tea and pumpkin pasty. It wasn’t that Lavender’s scars repelled him or anything like that: it was more the thought of all that suffering because he hadn’t been able to figure out the Horcruxes sooner.

He stopped by their table, and Hermione saw him first, smiling up at him.

“Harry, how great to see you! Come and sit with us. Lavender popped over to meet me for a coffee and was telling me how St Mungo’s is going.”

Harry sat down. “I didn’t know you were still having treatment,” he said, trying to swallow down his sense of guilt with a sip of tea.

Lavender laughed, one side of her face static with the four long scars running from top to bottom. “No, no more treatment. This,” she pointed at her face, “is the best that it gets.” Harry couldn’t tell if she was laughing from bitterness, or not.

“Go on, tell him!” Hermione leant forward, and Harry smiled at her enthusiasm. 

“I am,” said Lavender. “Give me a chance!” She smiled fondly at Hermione before turning back to Harry. “I’m going to be a Healer. I’m training at St Mungo’s. I’ve only recently started, really, but… it’s good.”

Harry ate his pasty as Lavender and Hermione continued their conversation, not really keeping up with the ins and outs of exactly what Lavender was studying: he had a feeling that listening too closely would adversely affect his ability to finish eating. Instead he watched the way she smiled a little as she spoke, and how her hands moved through the air as she became more animated in her descriptions. It had been a while since he’d last seen Lavender, and it was good to see her so much more full of life. Before, she’d looked like life had got the better of her, but now… now she was more like the girl he’d known at school. Except with a serious glint in her eye which he knew went with her scars.

After Lavender had gossiped a little about the Healers at the hospital, she made her excuses and left. Hermione watched her go. “She’s doing so well,” she murmured. Then she patted Harry on the arm. “I’m glad I saw you, I’ve been meaning to ask how you are. You’re still terrible at sending owls.”

“It’s only been a few weeks!”

“Months, Harry, a few months.”

“Oh, sorry,” he said, a little sheepishly. “Well, you know, they keep us busy. And anyway, I still _see_ you.”

“Yes, well, it would be nice to know how you’re doing, anyway.” Hermione sounded put out, but she smiled, and Harry knew she didn’t really mind. Although she did send him long owls, which he had to admit he did skim through – there was only so much about wizarding law he wanted to know in one go – he couldn’t find anything he particularly wanted to write about to her. He didn’t want to have to think about it any more than he had to.

A familiar laugh caught Harry’s attention, and he looked over at the group at the back of the room. He saw, with confusion, that not only did it include Ron and Neville, but Malfoy was also there. Harry’s mouth hung open when Ron laughed and smacked Malfoy hard enough on the back to make him wince. Malfoy pulled back, but Ron kept talking, his arms waving as he told a story, seemingly oblivious to Malfoy’s discomfort.

“Harry?” asked Hermione, then she turned to look at the group too. “Are you OK?”

Harry looked back at Hermione, who was watching him with thoughtful eyes. “I don’t get it. How can they be friends?”

Hermione glanced back over at the group of trainees. “You’re talking about Malfoy,” she said, a tone of disbelief in her voice, as if it were inconceivable that Harry should feel any antagonism towards Malfoy, or even spare him a thought. “Ron says that he’s OK now.”

“He is, I guess. But he’s still _Malfoy_ , you know?”

“What exactly is it that bothers you now?”

Suddenly Harry felt the force of Hermione’s lawyer-like scrutiny, and her fierce curiosity. He avoided meeting her eye. How could he answer her question? He wasn’t even sure himself.

“I don’t know. He just– he’s good at everything. Really good. And—“ Harry broke off, embarrassed about continuing.

“Go on, you can tell me.”

“Ron’s _my_ friend. He should be sitting laughing with me, not that git.”

“You’re the one who came to sit with me, Harry.”

“I know.” Harry remembered how happy he’d been to see her there. “But Lavender—“

“Lavender is getting on with her life now. Maybe you should be too.” 

“It’s just…” Harry tried to straighten his thoughts out a little. Malfoy always inspired feelings of… huge irritation. He sighed, knowing that Hermione was the nearest he’d get to an impartial listener. Maybe she’d even understand. “Well, it’s almost as if… as if the past doesn’t matter, to anyone, but it does. Everyone seems so willing to… move on.” Harry tried to hold onto the twisting sensation which sprang up even at the mention of Malfoy’s name. “Look at Lavender. That wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t let the Death Eaters into the school. And he was always a bastard to you in school. And he broke my nose.”

“Lavender’s doing OK, and anyway, you’re the one who testified on his behalf.”

“Yes, I know. Ron reminds me every five minutes. I– I don’t know. He’s not a killer, I know that—“, Harry’s eyes met Hermione’s, pleading with her to understand. It was just all so _confusing,_ “—but it isn’t that simple. He… he’s not evil, I don’t think that, and it’s clear that he’s going to be a brilliant Auror.” Harry couldn’t help the edge of bitterness that crept into his voice at this admission. “But he’s just– he doesn’t seem _sorry_ for anything he’s done!” Harry said, his voice rising in exasperation, unable to adequately put his frustrations into words.

“I see. You want to see him repent?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. I know that I kept him out of Azkaban, but sometimes I wish that he had been… I don’t know, punished a bit more. He almost killed Ron, for goodness' sake!”

“Has he ever apologised to you for his actions?”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “We don’t really talk to each other, if we can help it.”

“Do you want to know what I think, Harry?” Hermione said. She didn’t wait to hear his answer and leant forward, addressing him in her quietest, most serious voice. She was a little frightening in her intensity. “I think that sometimes actions speak louder than words. You do know that he’s walked away from his family? That he avoids them? And look what he’s doing now – training to be an Auror. He’s preparing to spend his life fighting the Dark Arts. What does that tell you?”

“That he’s smart? It’s not the same as being sorry.”

“Harry!”

Harry knew that he’d probably annoyed her. Angered her, even. He sighed. This was why he rarely spoke about how he felt about Malfoy. It was complicated, and probably not that healthy, but how could everyone keep going on as if nothing had happened? “Sorry, but that’s how I feel,” he muttered.

“Well, fine, but I think you need to do a bit of growing up.” Harry didn’t say anything, and his tea was nearly finished. Before he could get up though, Hermione touched his arm again. “Look, just… we’ve all been through a lot, Malfoy included. People can change, remember that.”

Harry nodded, but when he left he didn’t join Ron, deciding instead to go do some research into the Doppelganger Charm instead, in the hopes that for once he could manage something by himself. 

:::::

After his talk with Hermione, Harry found himself watching Malfoy more than he had before. The more Harry watched him, the more he learned that Malfoy didn't always get things right. He watched as Malfoy failed to unpick a puzzle correctly, becoming distracted by a false clue, or how occasionally a well-placed insult ruffled him enough to make him mis-cast. But then Harry also watched him pick himself up each time, and try again. Knowing that he wasn’t actually perfect but that he still did well through sheer bloody-mindedness didn’t make Malfoy’s successes or Harry’s failures any easier to bear.

A combination of begrudging respect for his abilities and anger at his lack of remorse left Harry in a constant state of confusion. He was torn between watching Malfoy with undisguised fascination, and wanting to see him break down with guilt for what he’d done. How dare he be so bloody competent? Secretly, Harry knew that he also wished that he had half the confidence that Malfoy showed in each and every session they shared. He felt as if there was some kind of barrier between his desire to become an Auror – still burning strong – and his actual ability to fulfil half of what they covered in class.

On occasion Malfoy tried to offer to help him, but that only made him even angrier, and he always refused. He was going to do this on his own. He was going to get it right without having to ask for help from _Malfoy_. He sensed Malfoy’s annoyance with him, and saw him offering help to the other trainees. The friendships that grew up as a result left Harry feeling that Malfoy was, in his own way, buying acceptance. It wasn’t enough, not in his books.

And then it became worse.

“Draco, please illustrate for us the correct way to restrain someone so that they cannot reach for their wand.”

Harry was already panting and red-faced, having been put through several attempts at being restrained. Each time though, he’d broken his wand arm free, and now there were two or three trainees sporting extra-large ears. 

Malfoy approached Harry with a speculative look on his face. Harry, for once, felt confident about his ability to escape any kind of hold that Malfoy could try. Malfoy reached out for Harry, and paused before he touched him. Harry nodded, appreciating the gesture. Malfoy was always an impeccable opponent in any sparring or duelling. Even Harry could admit that he’d changed in that regard since Hogwarts.

Rather than reach for his arm, or grab his body, Malfoy neatly sidestepped then knocked Harry’s knees out from under him, sending Harry hurtling towards the ground. Instinctively, Harry’s hands came out to break his fall, and then the next thing he was aware of was Malfoy kneeling against his back, whilst pulling his hands up into the air in such an angle that his shoulders protested as his arms twisted. He couldn’t move his hands, or his arms, and his wand was still neatly holstered at his side.

The strain of the position, especially as Harry pushed against it, trying to escape, was making Harry hot, as his limbs began to tremble and sweat to dampen his hair. He felt trapped, and let out a low grunt, but it made no difference.

While Harry was held down, the teacher was talking – explaining something about Malfoy’s hold on Harry – but the words were a meaningless drone of sound. All Harry was really aware of, painfully so, was the pressure of Malfoy’s knees as Malfoy sank his weight onto Harry’s back. His ribcage was being crushed down, his chin and neck at an awkward angle to the floor, as surely as if Malfoy had a handful of his hair and was tugging. Suddenly, Harry wanted to feel that too, the pain of his hair being pulled, the sting of it across his scalp. He couldn’t explain why.

Malfoy’s grip on his hands was firm and unwavering, and that was all that Harry could think: Malfoy is solid, Malfoy is firmness, Malfoy is unmoveable.

“—yes, very good, Draco. You can get up now.” 

The feeling of pressure disappeared as swiftly as it had arrived. Harry, sprawled across the floor, took in a long breath, feeling as if he might rise into the air with the sudden lightness of his body. And yet– and yet he almost missed the sensation of being pinned down, unable to move. It had been… more simple. Harry took another breath, shivering at the end of it.

He looked up, the teacher’s words still not really registering. All he could see was Malfoy, who was watching him, eyes bright and focus tight. Harry felt pinned again, trapped by the stare. It was only then that Harry became aware of another part of his body which had tensed up, ready for action. He was grateful for his robes, as he registered exactly how hard he was. He didn’t know what had done it, if it was being pressed against the floor like that, or what, but the shame of getting an erection because of anything to do with Malfoy…

Harry moved to return to his seat, aware all the time of Malfoy’s eyes following him. Panic shot through him: what if Malfoy _knew_ , somehow? He focused on his hands, held closed, and the feeling of his fingers digging into his palms. Next to him, Ron leant over and whispered “Are you OK?”, and Harry nodded once before trying to pick up the thread of the teacher’s talk. 

No matter how much he tried though, he couldn’t make sense of any of it. His scalp still tingled with the imagined pressure of Malfoy’s hand pulling on his hair, and nothing made sense to Harry in that moment. 

By concentrating on his breathing, Harry was able to calm down enough to know when it was time to stand and gather his things. He made his way out of the room as quickly as he could, and hid in his room for the rest of the day, trying but failing to forget the feeling of Malfoy: solid, firm and immoveable.

After that, as well as having to deal with all his resentment at precisely how fucking perfect Malfoy was as an Auror, he also had to deal with the way he was intensely aware of how Malfoy’s body moved, how strong he was, how the determination in his eyes was part of what made Harry’s body react in such an unexpected way. Late at night, in the privacy of his own room, Harry absolutely did not imagine the pale hand grasping his hair, the firm weight pinning him down, as his own hand moved with desperation and a new-found self-hatred. Not once.

:::::

Tiny flakes of snow, almost too small to see, fell from the sky, and fleeting whispers of cold brushed across Harry's skin before disappearing. February was proving even more wintry than January; the air was biting cold, and Harry hugged his cloak tighter, thankful for his thick gloves, hat and scarf. They were maroon, a Christmas gift from Molly Weasley, and although they were nothing like Malfoy's refined grey cashmere, they were warm.

He cast his eyes at his fellow trainee. Malfoy's nose was pink in the cold, his breath misting in front of his face as he surveyed the space between the forest and the farm. They were supposed to be using Muggle techniques in Stealth and Tracking, to identify what kind of activity was taking place in the valley. So far all they had learned was that it was cold, and that Muggle clothes weren’t as good as warming charms.

“I do realise that this is a challenge for you, Potter, but do you think you could stay focused on the task at hand?” Malfoy said.

Anger flared in Harry at Malfoy's tone, and he closed his eyes for a second. “Of course,” he said, trying to maintain the semblance of civility. However he felt, he needed to score well in every test from now on, to stay on the course. Bitterness twisted every time he thought of Malfoy though, with his bloody prowess and strength. Something even darker flared too, but he ignored it. Despite everything he had to admit that Malfoy was indeed good at all of this. The sneaking around in particular.

“By my reckoning, the building to the left is where most of the activity is taking place, with the one on the right being used for storage,” Malfoy said, sweeping his hand in front of him. Harry nodded: he'd come to the same conclusion. “Now, we've been told to find out what kind of activity is going on here. While it is possible that the Ministry, in their wisdom, send trainees out to spy on farmers, I don't think that's why we're here.”

“What's the point? None of this is real.” They both knew that there were no real Dark wizards hiding in the valley: it was all Aurors and their teachers, aiming to give them a taste of ‘real’ life. Yet each of these exercises seemed so futile: compared to all the very real challenges Harry had faced with his friends, this felt like playing. Even this one – an exercise in combined Stealth, Defence and Physical (non-magical) techniques – reeked of the pretend. He was frustrated, nothing so far quite matching what he’d thought training would be. But then he’d always pictured himself tackling training with a touch more success.

“It's real enough.” Malfoy returned to scanning the valley. “You really do need to focus, Potter. To be perfectly honest, I don’t care if you’re intent on failing or not, but I do intend on passing and becoming an Auror. So while we’re working together, I’d appreciate a bit more of an effort from you.” The words were staccato, each one jabbing at Harry with force. He could tell that Malfoy was pissed off, now, and somehow this was easier than them trying to be civil. More honest.

“I still don’t understand why you want to be an Auror.” The words came out before Harry was really aware of it: they had been bubbling away at the front of his mind all day.

“And I don’t understand why _you_ want to be an Auror. Haven’t you had enough of this by now?”

Harry bristled, but answered anyway. He’d tell Malfoy if it meant he got his answer too. “I… I don’t want it to get as bad again. I want to help find Dark wizards before they become Voldemort.” Harry thought of Teddy. “Before more people die.” He always held on to this thought as he failed to dodge another curse, or bungled an antidote, or slipped up in Concealment. 

“Very noble,” said Malfoy, still scanning the horizon. 

Harry ground his teeth in frustration. Even if Malfoy wasn’t satisfied with his answer, Harry still wanted an answer to his own question. “Anyway, what about you?”

“My mother once told me that it would never matter what I did,” Malfoy said, turning to face Harry. “People would only see my name, my stupid hair, and this fucking mark on my arm.” Malfoy drew up his coat sleeve, and Harry caught sight of thick black lines against white skin, before Malfoy pushed his sleeve down again. It was horribly fascinating, and Harry wanted to look at again, and to reach out and find out how it felt beneath his fingers. He wondered if touching it would somehow make his own scar hurt, but then he remembered that Voldemort was dead and gone, and that nothing would make his scar hurt again.

Malfoy was still looking at Harry, eyes fierce. “I chose not to believe her. I chose to walk away from her, and my father, and everything I’ve ever known. And do you know what? She was right. No one wants to know me, not really, and I’m fine with that.” The bitterness in his voice said otherwise, but Harry didn’t say anything to challenge him. “I realised something, out here in the wilderness of the real world.” He stopped, and took a step closer to Harry. “I don’t care.” 

Harry’s breath caught, as Malfoy, furious and pink-nosed, stood right in front of him. He couldn’t have spoken, even if he wanted to.

Malfoy’s voice was tight with anger as he continued. “I just want to be an Auror now. To be good at what I do. _I’m_ going to be the one to define who I am, what I do, not anyone else. Certainly not you, with your little pity-party and fumbling half-arsed attempts at every task put before you. I don’t know why you don’t seem able to give a shit about trying properly, and quite frankly I don’t care. But you are not going to mess up my chances. Understand?”

It was all Harry could do to nod mutely. He hated to admit it, but Malfoy was right about the self-pity. But at the same time he wanted to shout that he _was_ trying, it just wasn’t working, and he didn’t know why. He wasn’t going to, because he wouldn’t give that to Malfoy. It was too personal. Instead, Harry ground his teeth in frustration, knowing that somehow Malfoy had won this one.

A far-off crack drew their attention, and Malfoy swore softly. They began a slow descent towards the farm, taking care to stay out of sight. Harry was grateful that the snow wasn’t settling, as it would have made their progress more difficult, but he still wasn’t enjoying the way his fingers and toes were aching in the cold. Neither of them spoke, and Harry was determined that this time he would prove that he was trying, that he was worthy of the title ‘Auror’.

As they grew closer, moving along the low walls marking the lines between the fields, it became apparent that there were at least three or four people inside the main house. Their outlines could be seen at through the windows, arms raised in animated conversation. It still wasn’t any clearer to Harry what they were doing there. Malfoy’s arm shot out, holding Harry back and pulling him down, but his protest died on his lips as he saw why Malfoy had stopped: someone was standing by the barn, looking out as if searching for something. The woman’s eyes swept over them, and both Harry and Malfoy crouched, holding as still as possible. Her eyes moved on, and Harry let out a breath in relief.

They continued their slow progress, keeping an eye on the woman as they moved. She passed several times between the house and the barn, but always with empty arms. Finally, as they neared the buildings, she entered the farm and could be seen joining the conversation within.

“Let’s check out the barn,” whispered Harry, and to his surprise Malfoy nodded. He tried to hold onto the ‘I-can-be-an-Auror’ feeling, and led the way to the back of the barn. Both it and the farmhouse were built of stone, but while the house was painted a soft yellow, the barn was all bare stone, grey and solid-looking. There were no windows at the back, so they crept around the side until they found one. Peering in, Harry couldn’t help the small yelp of surprise at what he saw. The barn was full of Hippogriffs, strutting and idly flapping their wings. 

Malfoy pulled Harry back with a hiss of annoyance, and had a look himself through the window. He recoiled when he saw the Hippogriffs, and Harry was sure he heard him mutter, ‘Of course,’ but before he could say anything they heard footsteps approaching, then stop. Malfoy began to pull Harry back around the corner, but Harry turned back, suddenly struck by the thought that he had recognised one of the Hippogriffs, that it was Buckbeak. He pulled free of Malfoy, and looked back through the window.

A hand on his shoulder pulled at him, and Harry batted it away.

“I’m coming, Malf—“ He turned to see that it wasn’t Malfoy at all, but the woman they had seen earlier. “Oh, fuck.”

She frowned, and grasped his arm tightly. The next thing he knew, he had a wand digging sharply into his neck. Harry was trapped, but this felt nothing like being pinned by Malfoy. Instead he felt a rising burn of anger, which burst forth when she tightened her grip. He twisted, reaching for his wand as he shoved her into the wall behind. A look of shock crossed her face, as he growled, “Don’t move.” Keeping his grip on her, Harry looked around for Malfoy, but couldn’t see him anywhere. His rage increased. Had Malfoy left him to it? Cowardly toe-rag. But then he saw a flicker at the edge of his vision, and without thinking he turned towards it.

The next thing he saw was the red light come racing towards him, and he was dimly aware of another streak of red going in the direction he thought he’d seen Malfoy. And then, again, everything went dark as the Stunner hit.

The world swam into focus again, and white with light at first, and full of people. The woman who had, presumably, Stunned Harry pointed a wand to her face and Harry watched with a sickening sense of inevitability as the pink cheeks and dark hair of his mentor appeared. She did not look happy. Harry sat up, and saw Malfoy sitting on the ground, rubbing his head and also looking pissed off, a short distance away.

“I—“

“No.” There was no warmth in Hestia’s voice. Harry swallowed. “That was not good enough.” She crouched down to be at Harry’s level. “You have to do better than that, Harry. You forgot the most basic lesson. You didn’t listen to your partner, and failed to disarm me. You gave away his whereabouts. And I had hoped— this was supposed to be well within your capabilities.” She sighed. “For a while there, I thought that you and Draco were working quite well together.”

As Hestia stood up, everyone stopped and turned to face her. “We’ll reconvene at the training centre in ten minutes, and go over all the positives and negatives of this exercise.”

Slowly, everyone Apparated away, until only Harry and Malfoy were left, both still sitting on the ground. They stood, brushing off their robes, neither talking. Malfoy’s jaw was set in stiff lines, as if he were biting down hard. 

“What were you thinking, Potter?” he said, barely moving his mouth as he ground the words out. He held a hand up. “Actually, I don’t want to hear your excuses: save them for Hestia. I _told_ you how important this was. How _dare_ you fuck it up? This should have been simple, and now I have a fail on my mark sheet. Thank you very much.” He kicked at a small stone on the ground. It rattled away and hit the wall. “Don’t you see? Don’t you get it? It’s been so fucking hard to get to this point, and now you waltz in with your ‘I’ll do what I want’ attitude and mess it all up. Just because you’ve already got friends and you’re a fucking war hero, doesn’t mean the rest of us have it quite so easy.”

“Easy, you think it’s easy?”

“Oh, don’t give me your sob story, I’m in no mood to hear it. ‘It’s all so difficult and no one will let me do whatever I want to do.’ Well boohoo, Potter.”

Harry didn’t even consider how to answer Malfoy. Instead, he launched himself at across the space between them, his hand already balling into a fist. Before he could do anything with it though, Malfoy had knocked him to the ground. Grabbing what he could – Malfoy’s robes, an arm, – Harry tried to push Malfoy down, and roll on top. But Malfoy, despite his slight-seeming build, was strong, and had probably spent hours practising every move covered in their Physical Defence classes. It didn’t take long for him to be straddling Harry, his hands pinned down beside him.

Malfoy’s hands were tight around his wrists. Harry tried to move his hands free, but he couldn’t. Cold stones digging into his back, he could see the anger in Malfoy’s eyes. Harry struggled for a moment more, but then he became aware of another problem. Malfoy’s weight, pressing down on him, was having the unfortunate effect of—

Thankfully at that moment, Malfoy chose to let go and stand up. Harry couldn’t bear to face him, not after the humiliation of being bested like that. And had Malfoy stood because he’d been aware of Harry’s growing… problem? Harry’s face flushed red at the thought, and he stood himself, grateful when Malfoy Disapparated, leaving him alone in a Welsh farmyard in the biting cold. He waited for his erection to subside, then Apparated before he got in trouble for being late, as well as everything else.

:::::

It was quiet, up on the roof. Quiet and cold, but no snow. Harry looked out over the roof tops of London. He’d really messed up this time, he knew that. His ears were still burning from the telling-off he’d got. Malfoy hadn’t spoken to him, merely glared from the other side of the room. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat made Harry turn, almost losing his balance from his perch at the roof’s edge. Malfoy was standing behind him.

“How did you find me?”

“Magic, remember?” Malfoy took a step towards Harry, who recoiled a little. He stopped and scowled. “Oh, don’t be an idiot, Potter, I’m not going to push you off!”

Harry was still holding on to the roof edge, fingers clasped tightly round stone, but he realised that yes, deep down he did know that he wasn’t about to be shoved off. He relaxed his grip a little, but was still wary as he eyed up Malfoy. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

Malfoy visibly paused, taking in a large breath. “I would do, normally, but…”

“But what?”

“But you… you’re Harry Potter.”

Disappointment rippled through Harry, and he turned back to the anonymous bustle of London. “I don’t want to hear it,” he said, feeling cold inside. He’d had enough of people telling him who he was. Harry bloody Potter: not even his name felt like his own. Everyone in the wizarding world owned a piece of it.

“I don’t mean it like that.” Uninvited, Malfoy came to sit next to him. “I know I said I didn’t care, but maybe I do, a little bit.” They watched as a flock of pigeons flew off a nearby roof, turning through the sky before settling in the bare branches of some trees, a little further on. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of this version of Malfoy, gently-spoken and invading his space under the sky. “You do tend to mess everything up, and mostly I wonder why you even bother to stay on the course. But then I see something… almost familiar. You are one stubborn bastard.”

“Stubborn? Is that the best you can do?” Harry said, scornful of such a pathetic insult. Malfoy stared at him, eyes pale and light-filled.

“It’s almost a compliment, you idiot. In a strange way you remind me of me. Not as good at it all, obviously.” Harry scowled. “But not willing to give up. You refuse to quit, yet you never really manage to get anything right. Honestly? I don’t think that you’re about to throw away every bit of respect you’ve earned from the wizarding world. It looks like you don’t care. But I think that you do.” He paused. “You could still be a good Auror. You need to learn to trust your magic, to see a bit more clearly what’s happening around you.”

Harry didn’t want this: he didn’t want Malfoy to have a soft side. He didn’t want him to be human, or to understand what Harry was going through. He wanted to be able to keep hating him, because that was easier than having to consider anything else. Like precisely why Harry got so… hot and bothered when he thought of Malfoy on top of him, crushing him into the ground. He willed away the thought, focusing instead on the rough stone beneath his hands.

Up on the roof it was windy, and the noise of it seemed to fill Harry’s ears. He longed for silence, proper silence, and the image of a cool white waiting room flitted through his mind; he felt tired, all of a sudden. “I don’t need your opinion. Didn’t ask for it, either.” Harry just wanted to be left alone.

“Don’t be a fool, Potter,” Malfoy said, wearily. Harry still wouldn’t look at him, but he could feel the hum of Malfoy’s body, tense next to his own. Malfoy might be tired, but he was still pissed off. 

“What does it matter to you?” Harry finally turned to face Malfoy. “You might be the teacher’s pet, but that doesn’t mean you need to be bothered with how other people are doing. Why should you care about what happens to me, when you obviously don’t care about anyone else?” Harry again saw the faces of the dead, the same faces he saw at night in his dreams. “I’m sorry if I don’t live up to your image of the great Harry Potter.” Harry felt his anger build again, and he laughed. “You’ve been playing us all. I see your plan now: get on the good side of Harry Potter. Good for your future career as the star of the Auror department. Well, sorry to have disappointed you on that one.”

Malfoy’s face was white, his lips pinched thin.

“Well, I don’t think you really care about what happens to me, and I certainly don’t care about _you_ ,” said Harry went on. “Somehow you’ve manage to put everything behind you, like it doesn’t matter at all. Well, it _does_ matter. Lavender matters. Fred mattered. Charity Burbage mattered.” He saw Malfoy’s shoulders tremble as he said their former Muggle Studies teacher’s name, and remembered seeing, through his connection to Voldemort, as Malfoy had watched her being tortured and killed. Harry, too, shuddered at the memory. “They all matter,” he added softly, putting his head in his hands, feeling the sting of tears as he pushed his fingers onto his closed eyes. Harry took a few deep breaths, still feeling the ache of all the senseless loss, still feeling it every day. 

“You think I don’t think they matter? Of course they matter.” Malfoy spoke through clenched teeth. “It’s why I– I need to do this. To be a better person. And it hasn’t come for free. Do you really think I’ve got any friends? You’re probably the only here could actually understand anything of who I am.”

Standing up, Harry looked down at Malfoy. “I can’t just move on like that, so I’m sorry if that doesn’t meet with your approval. But don’t ever say that we’re the same again. And, personally, I really don’t care whether you have friends or not.”

Harry was swaying, and for a second he longed to feel a hand, tight on his arm again, keeping him grounded. But no, that was all wrong. It was easier, he told himself, to simply focus on the twisting in his gut and call it hatred. He closed his eyes and remembered Ron falling to the ground after drinking poisoned wine, or the sick _crunch_ as his nose broke, or the angry red lines marring Lavender’s face. He thought about how the look of defeat had haunted her eyes for months on end.

He walked away, leaving Malfoy to stare after him, his expression unreadable.

:::::

“So your role, young trainees, is to help the wizarding world maintain its balance. We can never see the rise of another Dark wizard again.” Robards gave Harry a significant look, and all eyes turned in his direction. Harry shrank back in his chair a little. Any hope he had that Robards would leave him alone soon faded. “Of course, we are lucky that in this very year are many who have personally fought and defeated Dark wizards, including the Darkest of them all.”

Robards had come in to give them a lecture. It was supposed to be a special event, having the Head Auror come in. Something to keep them going, halfway through their first year of training. So far though, it had been long-winded, and more than a little patronising. 

Beside him, Harry heard a whispered “For fuck’s sake” from Ron, and a muffled snort from Neville. Robards finally turned to a topic other than Death Eaters or the war, and Harry chanced a glance around the room. No one was looking at him any more – no one except for Malfoy.

Their eyes met, and there was a spark of recognition – of understanding – which shocked Harry into turning away. He knew he’d seen it: the scorn for Robards’ empty words which he himself felt. It was the strangest of feelings. For a moment Harry saw that if there had been no war, no meeting at Madame Malkin’s, no Mudbloods and Purebloods, maybe they could have been friends. But then Harry realised that Malfoy’s scorn was probably based on exactly those things. Their experiences, and choices, had marked out different paths for them.

In fact, no matter how dull and irritating Robards was, Harry realised, there was something behind his words. There had been a war, and the threat from Dark magic was real, Harry knew that. He remembered the way Slytherin’s locket had twisted his thoughts and feelings, and he knew that it didn’t need a Voldemort to destroy life: it could happen on a person by person basis.

He stopped listening to the talk, instead thinking about Horcruxes, and how Ginny as a child had opened the Chamber of Secrets, and killed cockerels in her sleep. Harry shivered, despite the warmth of the room. He knew why he wanted to be an Auror. He didn’t want anything like that to happen again. And if it did, he wanted to stop it.

There was a bit of a crush to get out of the room after the talk. Harry found himself squashed into Malfoy’s bony side, and the rush of heat he felt turned into shame and anger. Harry pushed through a little more forcefully than needed, and their shoulders jarred as Harry barged past. A brief contact, a moment of pain, but worth it for the look on Malfoy’s face.

“Watch out, Potter!”

Harry considered pushing again, seeing what he could get out of Malfoy. It had been satisfying, that brief bump, but he turned away. He didn’t want any of it: the confusion; the heat which built in him with the memory of being pinned; the shame; or the anger. He began to walk away.

“Potter!” Malfoy called out, and he caught up with Harry, grabbing his arm to stop him. “I don’t know what your problem is. I’m not the person you think I am. And… I know you told me you weren’t interested, but I still think that you could crack your problems in training. I think maybe I could help you. With training, and,” Malfoy met Harry’s eye and tightened his grip on his arm, pushing it more towards the wall, “other stuff, too.” His thumb brushed hard over Harry’s skin, giving rise to goosebumps in its trail.

Harry pushed Malfoy’s hand away with the full force of his shame at how good that tight grip had felt. Shame turned to anger. “Look, leave me alone! I don’t need your help, I don’t want to talk to you, and I’d be happy to never see you again. You might have impressed everyone here, but I know that you are pathetic. You are a sad loser, and you know it.” He knew that he sounded like a petulant teenager, but somehow Malfoy always brought out the worst in him.

Fuming and slightly aroused, Harry walked off.

:::::

At three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon in March, the Leaky was almost empty.

“You really have some issues with Malfoy, don’t you?” Ron said, once they’d settled down with their butterbeers. Harry sighed. He’d thought that his friends would avoid talking about it, but he’d obviously been wrong.

“You looked like you were going to get into another fight with him.” Neville shook his head. “It won’t go down well if you do.”

“It’s not like we’ve ever been best of friends,” said Harry.

“Well, yes, I know,” said Ron, “but you can _feel_ it now when the two of you are in the same room. I thought you two were going to have another fight, the other day.”

Harry felt himself tense up. “Do we have to do this now?”

Ron didn’t say anything, looked over at Neville then took a sip of his drink. “I really don’t think that Malfoy’s that bad,” he said in the end.

“Look, I’d really rather not, if you don’t mind. It’s probably just… that stupid talk Robards gave us got me wound up.” Harry knew this wasn’t the entire truth, but he really didn’t want to talk about it: he hadn’t said some of those things about the war before, not even to Ron or Hermione, and he hated that the first person he’d ever said them to was Malfoy.

Ron looked unconvinced, but then let out a low laugh. “Robards was a bit full of himself, wasn’t he?”

Neville puffed his chest out and deepened his voice. “There is dark, there is light. We stand between the two, casting long shadows—”

“Does that even make sense?” Ron said.

“—to keep the world safe.”

Harry groaned. “That speech was something else!” Neville quoted a few more choice lines and then the conversation moved on. Harry did not mention how he saved the memory of Malfoy’s body, shoved against his, for later in the night, alone in his room. He could still feel the steel-like grip on his arm. He hated his body, for liking it so much.

:::::

The weight pinned him down, crushing the breath from him. Harry writhed under it, but a firm hand shot out and held his arm down. Harry struggled for a moment more, then stilled. His heart beating fast, it was all he could do not to moan and arch into it. He knew though, that he had to be absolutely still, absolutely silent. Every part of his body strained against the weight, but welcomed it too. He was hard, his cock as squashed as the rest of him, pressed up against the other body, and he had never felt more aroused. Before anything else could happen though, Harry awoke.

He blinked slowly in the dim light of his room, unable to help the sense of disappointment as he realised that he was alone, that it had been a dream. But then came the familiar and churning sense of shame. He hadn’t seen a face: it wasn’t a dream about Malfoy. It wasn’t. He groaned and lay back, knowing that he needed to go back to sleep, knowing that another busy day lay ahead. He refused to touch himself, and instead waited for his erection to subside so that he could sleep.

But try as he might, Harry couldn't sleep. In the end he gave up and padded down the corridor to the empty kitchen, in search of a glass of water and a change of scene. 

Empty corridors at night made him think of invisibility cloaks, and magic maps, and huge dogs with three heads, and Harry smiled. His smile fell though, as his thoughts returned to Malfoy. Sometimes he thought he’d seen Malfoy watching him, a speculative, almost hungry look in his eyes, but Harry wasn’t sure. If Malfoy came too near to him, Harry would often act overly aggressive, which seemed to keep him at bay. Harry wasn’t sure if he did it because Malfoy annoyed him, or because he wanted to be pushed to the ground again. He tried not to dwell on it, dreams excepted.

As Harry approached the kitchen, he could already see that it was filled with cool, clear moonlight. He stopped just inside the doorway as he saw out the outline of someone standing by the kitchen window, and he swayed slightly as he realised that it was Malfoy.

Seeing Malfoy here, in such a strangely domestic space, was unsettling. Unbidden, the image of Malfoy crying over sinks at Hogwarts came to mind. He didn’t want to, but Harry remembered that Draco had been under huge pressures that year.

When Malfoy caught sight of him, several emotions seemed to chase across his face, all too quickly for Harry to make sense of them. He put down the cup in his hand and straightened up, his body suddenly alert.

“What are you doing here?” Harry knew how belligerent he sounded. 

“Drinking some water, Potter. I do use this kitchen too, you know.” His casual words belied the tension in his body.

Harry flushed red in the dark. Occasionally he’d bumped into Malfoy here, or in the bathroom, but it was so rare it was mostly as if they lived nowhere near each other, not at opposite ends of the same corridor. Suddenly he wondered whether that was merely down to chance, or because Malfoy had been avoiding him. Or the other way around.

“Yeah, of course. Um, me too. The water, that is.” Harry moved to the sink to get himself a drink. Malfoy leant back against the window frame, watching him. Harry felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the scrutiny. He tried not to think about his dream, about the feel of a body on top of his. He was painfully aware that they were both standing there in only their pyjamas. Just a thin piece of cotton, between him and—

The cool water was a welcome distraction. He faced the sink, rinsing his glass out slowly when he had finished. Standing at the sink, he tried to calm himself with some long, slow breaths.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Malfoy’s voice disturbed the quiet of the room. Harry turned to face him.

“I… I haven’t.”

“No? It seems to me that you have. Ever since Wales.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say, because it was true, he had been avoiding Malfoy. Nothing but the barest of civilities in class, and then avoiding anywhere public where they might meet. 

“I told you before, I’m not interested,” Harry said, trying to push Malfoy away with his words, if he could. He knew they were half a lie though: the way his body longed to close the gap between the two of them was enough to tell him that.

“In what? I think that’s the question here.”

An unexpected tingle of anticipation rose up his spine, as Harry remembered the strength of Malfoy’s hands, his memory mixing with his dream. But Harry knew that this feeling wasn't right. Not now, not here: not ever. He clamped down on the rekindled feelings of desire, curling and licking inside of him, and tried instead to focus on the ever-present anger he felt when he saw Malfoy. If he thought about Malfoy’s lack of apology since the war, or even back to the sneer in Malfoy's boyish face as he called Hermione a Mudblood, then it was easy to pretend that the flame he felt was hatred, pure and simple.

The breath caught in Harry's throat as Malfoy took first one, then another step towards him. Each step increased the sense of danger in the room. 

Now he caught the look on Malfoy’s face, and it was one of pure emotion. There was no thinking about appearances here. _Yes_. Finally, somehow, he’d made Malfoy snap. How, he wasn’t sure. Finally, _something_ was going to happen. His body thrilled at the thought, but his mind was reeling in panic. 

Hot breath touched his face, then warm lips were pressed to his. They were hungry and fierce, seemingly ready to devour him. Overcome, Harry froze, but then he pushed Malfoy away with his hands, because… because this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Malfoy though, didn't push back. Instead he deepened the kiss, his hands moving into Harry's hair and pulling Harry closer. It was excruciating: the way his scalp tingled and his body sang to be finally pressed up against Malfoy like this, the way a shiver of lust wrapped around him. But it was the ball of hate he always carried with him which twisted within Harry, and somehow he managed to push Malfoy away.

"What the fuck?" Harry was furious now. Damn his stupid body, aching for more. He gritted his teeth and took that feeling, tightening it into a hate-filled fire. His breath came fast and quick. How dare Malfoy do that, after Harry had told him he wasn’t interested? Malfoy was still staring at him. Self-disgust flooded Harry as his body responded to the naked look of lust dancing with along with the traces of hatred in Malfoy's eyes, narrowed and filled with emotion. Damn him for his sneering, kissing ways! The fire reached Harry's face in a sudden flush of heat, and he looked away.

“You can’t fucking do whatever the hell you want, Malfoy!”, Harry said. He couldn't bear to look at Malfoy. The smarmy, beautiful bastard that he was. All this time Harry had been so very sure that he hated Malfoy, that the other thing was merely something accidental. But now… it was all too much to take in, and Harry fell back, retreating to the small table lit by the window overlooking a world pale and colourless, buildings bright with moonlight but the streets hidden in deep shade. Harry felt safer somehow, in the squares of light coming from outside, with a table between the two of them. He still watched Malfoy, who touched a hand to his lips, then took a step forward. Feeling trapped, Harry felt his senses sharpen and he raised his hands without thinking about it. Malfoy stopped, and Harry calmed a fraction, relieved, and lowered his hands.

But then Malfoy did the most infuriating thing possible: he smiled, that confident smirk which always made Harry want to reach over and wipe it clean away. The fire of Harry's rage flared at the sight, and his hands locked into fists, held tightly at his sides.

“Scared, Potter?” It was the echo of so many schoolboy taunts, but this time the voice was deeper, the words laced with suggestion. A different challenge to any offered at Hogwarts. 

The edges of everything went white, as Harry's anger grew. He only wanted life to be simple. Malfoy had messed everything up. “What do you think you’re doing? Kissing me like that.” Harry’s mind was whirling, the words in his head making no sense. “Why?” 

Malfoy began to move again, his feet tracing a slow line towards Harry. Hairs rose on the back of Harry's neck at the sight of Malfoy, the predatory smile still on his face.

“I don’t know, Potter. Perhaps I’ve realised precisely how much I’ve missed your company.”

As if they’d ever spent any time together. Harry stared at Malfoy. The bastard. It was as if Malfoy knew some secret that Harry wasn’t privyparty to, and it was infuriating. Well, he’d had enough of feeling one step behind. This time, Harry was going to be the first to act. All of sudden he knew what to do. He took a step forward, watching as Malfoy's eye's widened, and something – hope, fear, desire? – filled his gaze. And then Harry pulled back his fist, and swung with all his might until it connected with Malfoy's jaw and a sickening crack filled the room. Malfoy's eyes lost their focus, and for a moment everything stood still, and then his body flew back as he collapsed on the floor.

:::::

“Sit.” Hestia busied herself fetching glasses and conjuring water, her back turned to Harry without waiting for him to comply. The grey light of dawn slowly filled the room, and it seemed unnaturally quiet without the sounds of people in the background.

He sat in the bashed old visitor's chair by her desk, grateful for the short reprieve, and dared a look at his hand. The skin was red and shiny where it was swollen. He prodded it, gently, and couldn't help the face he pulled at the sharp pain this caused. Having to seek help in the middle of the night had not been fun: his reception, once he’d explained that he’d knocked Malfoy out, even less so.

“Don't do that—” Harry snatched his hand away, feeling guilty, but Hestia froze some of the water and made him a little ice pack. “Don't be silly, take this: a field healing charm isn't going to take all the pain away.”

Harry swallowed. Hestia pushed forwards his glass of water, but Harry ignored it. He forced himself to breathe out: someone once had told him that it wasn't remembering to breathe that was important, it was remembering to release theat breath you held that would keep you calm. He didn't feel calm. Harry looked down at his hand again, then up to the gentle yet disappointed gaze of his mentor.

“I– I didn't mean for this to happen again—” Even as he spoke the words, Harry wasn't sure how true they were.

“You never mean for it happen, Harry. And yet here we are again. You're lucky that Draco isn't more seriously injured. I can't explain away your actions. You know that we can't treat you any differently—”

“I've never asked to be treated differently.”

“And yet you continue to behave as if the rules are there for other people, not you.”

Harry felt the sting of the injustice of her words. He wasn't the one who had pushed the situation to this point, Malfoy was. Malfoy was the one who had kissed him. He couldn't, wouldn't, mention it. Hestia kept her eyes fixed on him.

“Look, I know that it hasn't been easy for you, since the war, that it hasn't ever really been easy, but I also know that you want to be an Auror, right?”

“Right.” Harry tried not to glare. He was in enough trouble already, but this mix of understanding and disappointment was hard to stomach. There was always this hint of pity hidden amongst her words, and Harry hated it. He hated that she had met the Dursleys, that she knew about his past. Not because it made him weak, or because he was ashamed of having a Muggle background, but for this: the catch in the voice, the softening of the eyes, the gentle handling. He knew that she treated him differently, and he knew that it wasn't because he was a war hero or because he'd killed Voldemort, but because he had a narrow-minded, frightened and petty aunt and uncle whom she'd had the misfortune to babysit when they went into hiding.

Hestia carried on, her voice hardening as she became more of the disapproving Auror. “Well, as this is not the first incident this year, I think we are going to have to come up with some way of dealing with your ongoing antagonism with Draco. Tonight Harry, you've illustrated your total inability to work with another trainee.” She held up a hand. “Before you say anything, it doesn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, what your history with him is. We always knew that there would be some issues with this group of recruits after everything that has come before, especially given that we accepted someone with the Mark. But, and this is a big but, once you join the Auror corps, you will have to be able to trust your life to any other Auror on the team. Including Draco.”

“If you continue your petty rivalry, then I am afraid that neither of you will be able to pass training. And as you know there are no second chances once you leave the course. This is your last chance.” Harry felt sick. Now she was giving him responsibility for Malfoy’s chances too? How was he supposed to worry about that too? 

“You are suspended for a week, Harry. Use that time to reflect on exactly what you want, then when you come back you will be partnered with Draco for the rest of the year. In classes, in practicals, in the weekly simulations. We will not have this discussion again. Understood?”

Harry knew he had no choice but to agree. Not if he wanted to become an Auror. He swallowed. “No, we won't. I do... I do want to do this. I do want to be an Auror.” 

“I know that you do, Harry. I want this for you. I know how far you've come, and I have an inkling of how much further you could go.” She reached out and touched his uninjured hand.

And there was the other side of it. She knew more about him than anyone else, and it made her a devastating mentor. Because, with her warm smiles and gentle words, somehow Harry ended up always wanting to please her. To make her proud. It was just a pity that he always seem to fail.

“The next time I see you will be in a week's time, with Draco, at Auror training.”

Harry let himself out of her office, and slumped down once he had shut the door. The rest of the year partnered with Malfoy? But as he stood there, he remembered not the punch, but the kiss and the heat that had mingled with his anger. Harry groaned. Maybe he didn't want to be an Auror, after all. This was going to make it too hard: he’d never manage another three months. Not without going mad or killing the bastard.

:::::

Back on the rooftop of the Auror school, Harry contemplated the sky above him, stars twinkling in the darkness despite the background light of the city around him. The moon was wide and bright again, casting dark shadows but bleeding everything around him of colour. He wasn’t expecting anyone to find him, but he had forgotten that of course there was one person who knew about his hideaway.

“Potter.” Malfoy’s voice rang out across the roof. Harry groaned. “Ah, there you are.” Malfoy sat down next to Harry. The sounds of traffic rose from Muggle London in the distance, mingled with the sound of laughter from nearby Diagon Alley.

“Don’t you ever give up? I don’t want to talk to you,” Harry said, determined not even to look at Malfoy. The night breeze was warm enough, but it was only just May, and Harry shivered and wrapped his arms around himself. Malfoy sat himself down next to Harry anyway.

“You never think to use magic,” Malfoy murmured.

The sudden gentle heat of a warming charm spread over Harry. “Thanks,” he muttered. He paused. “I’m not going to say sorry, you know. You deserved that punch.” He could the pressure of Malfoy’s leg next to his. Suddenly Harry was more than aware of exactly how close Malfoy was sitting. He stiffened, his arm knocking into Malfoy’s side. Malfoy didn’t react, but Harry was aware of his own heart, beating faster and harder than it been before.

Malfoy snorted. “And I’m not going to say sorry, either. You… you needed that kiss.”

“Shut up,” Harry murmured. He turned to look at Malfoy. His nose looked sharp in the moonlight. His eyes… his eyes were filled with an openness that Harry hadn’t seen before. He looked fierce, yet vulnerable. It was only the two of them, sat on the edge of a rooftop above London, with nothing between them but cool night air. When Malfoy dipped his face forwards, and kissed Harry again, this time Harry felt his resistance to… _this_ … break inside him. He closed his eyes, and wrapped a hand around Malfoy’s neck. “Just shut up,” he repeated, and he kissed Malfoy back, anger and hatred and every moment he had thought about this since Malfoy had kissed him earlier, poured into a hunger he didn’t know he possessed.

He was sick of worrying and thinking. He only wanted Malfoy, all of Malfoy. He wanted to feel hands in his hair, and a hard weight pushing him down. He wanted to feel nothing but his body, twisted and pulled to its limit, with his mind blank. Yes. A break from the thinking and the worrying and the—

Malfoy pulled back, his lips spit-slicked and his eyes half-closed. He pushed Harry away, gently, and touched his fingers to Harry’s cheek. “Not here,” he whispered. Harry nodded, and, his hand on Malfoy’s arm, Apparated them to the gloom of his room at Grimmauld Place. They were standing next to the windows, faded curtains half-drawn. A shaft of light fell across Malfoy.

Without even looking to see where they had ended up, Malfoy reached out and pulled Harry in for another kiss. Malfoy’s body was hard against his, so different to the soft press of Ginny’s. A mix of regret and excitement travelled through Harry, but as they kissed, mouths hungry and breathing harsh, he forgot all about Ginny, all about this being _Malfoy._ It wasn’t curves he wanted: it was heat, hardness, the straining flesh he could feel between them.With a shaking hand he began to unbutton Malfoy’s robes with urgent, clumsy fingers. Malfoy’s eyes widened, and then he too began to strip Harry of his robes, his hands no more steady than Harry’s.

Harry was trembling at the thought of whatever it was that they were about to do. Nothing so far in his life had been like this. With one final wavering thought he decided that he’d had enough of worrying. He didn’t care if this was hate, or messed up: he needed this release, quick and hard and in the dark.

With a sense of courage that he hadn’t felt in a long time, his hands moved to Malfoy’s trousers, and he pressed his fingers along the hard heat pushing up against the fabric. Malfoy moaned, his hips twitching, and Harry felt a thrill that he was doing this, that he was making Malfoy react like this. His heart was pounding as he freed Malfoy’s cock and wrapped his fingers around it. It felt good, another man in his hand like this, hot and hard. Harry moved his thumb in a slow swipe over the head, watching as Malfoy’s mouth fell open and his eyes closed, his breath snatching in a shallow gasp.

A strange feeling of possession passed through Harry at the sight, and he moved his thumb again and was rewarded by another intake of breath. But then Malfoy opened his eyes, and looked directly at Harry, and the atmosphere in the room changed. There was fire in his eyes, and something else. Something… predatory. Harry felt trapped, and he began to tremble, suddenly unsure about what would happen next.

“You… you have no idea, do you, who you are?” Malfoy whispered, as he stepped back from Harry. “But I see you, I do. I see what you need.” Harry was mesmerised by his voice, low and intense, and didn’t respond. Malfoy reached for Harry’s t-shirt, and began to pull it up, dragging it slowly along Harry’s skin as he did so. It felt like Malfoy’s thumbs – the nails Harry could feel passing over his skin – were stroking in sharp lines of sparks all the way to his toes, his cock, as they moved. Harry groaned, and Malfoy smiled. He looked dangerous, as if he was some wild beast from a fairy tale, ready to gobble Harry up in one go. Harry raised his arms as the t-shirt was pulled free from his torso, but just as it snagged over his elbows, obscuring his face, Malfoy stopped tugging.

“Don’t move,” Malfoy said. Harry’s heart was squeezing painfully in his chest now, but at Malfoy’s words he froze. Suddenly he was aware of the fabric bunching around his shoulders, pulling against his arms. His hands rested against the cold wall behind, in the space between the room’s two tall windows. He couldn’t see Malfoy any more, and he shut his eyes, aware instead of every movement Malfoy made, every shaky breath he took. He felt as Malfoy undid Harry’s trousers. Harry arched his body towards Malfoy as the gentlest of touches whispered its way along his cock. His chest still ached, and as if the air itself was being squeezed from his body. He couldn’t help the way he began to shake in earnest as he heard Malfoy drop to his knees, and felt the first warm, wet touch of his tongue.

His arms were beginning to burn from holding them above his head, but Harry ignored the pain. And then Malfoy began to run his tongue up and down, over and around, and Harry didn’t think about his arms, or pain. He only felt the press of fabric on his face, his breath hot as it became trapped in the space, and then the knee-buckling sensation of Malfoy sucking him into his mouth. A hand grasped onto his side and pushed him back against the cool glass of the window. The hand kept Harry there, grounding him, connected him to the room and the cool night air outside, and to Malfoy in front of him.

There was nothing polished about the way Malfoy’s mouth was moving: it was messy and urgent, and Harry didn’t know what to think or do, so he lost himself to the sensations. The sound of his own ragged breaths filled his world, harsh in his ears. As Malfoy continued, relentlessly, the sensation hovering between arousal and discomfort, Harry found that he began to make another sound, a series of moans he couldn’t contain until he groaned into a shuddering release.

His t-shirt was still close to his face, and suddenly it seemed too close, suffocating in fact, but then Malfoy stood and lifted it, freeing Harry’s face and arms. He tugged it off with such gentleness that the gesture was almost tender, but the look on Malfoy’s face was not. It was wild, and hungry, and filled with desire. He pulled Harry towards him, and kissed him, hard. His mouth tasted of Harry, a taste unfamiliar and yet familiar. Harry kissed back, with everything he had. They rested a moment, heads against each other, breathing heavily. And then Harry looked down, and saw Malfoy’s cock still standing stiff and proud, silver in the moonlight. Malfoy took Harry’s hand, pulling it down until, fingers threaded, they both began to rub and twist, over and over. The shiny head emerged, again and again from the fingers, and Harry wanted to see Draco come, but in the end it was too tempting to look up, to look at Draco with his head thrown back and his lips parted, his eyes half-closed. As he felt the pulse in his hands, the wetness against his skin as Malfoy came on him, all his attention was focused on Draco’s face, pale yet flushed, as he came undone.

The room was cold. Harry hadn’t really realised that before, but now, as the dampness on his hand and against his stomach cooled, he shivered. As if coming up through water, he saw where he was: in a dark, decrepit bedroom. A place he hated. With a man he… hated. Didn’t he? Harry reached down, pulled his trousers up a little, and took a step back. He found his wand and tried to clean himself a little.

Looking over at Malfoy, Harry saw that he was watching him, still standing half-naked, pale and ghostly in the moonlight. His face hardened as Harry twisted away, refusing to keep up the eye contact. The ball of hatred had only disappeared for a while, and it was back, eating him up from the inside. He didn’t know who he hated most in that moment: Malfoy or himself.

“I want you to leave. That… that shouldn’t have happened,” Harry said. Shame filled him. He had used Malfoy, not caring who he was. But Malfoy… he hadn’t done that because he didn’t care. He had told Harry _I know what you need_ , and even the memory of the words made him shiver. Malfoy couldn’t have that hold over him. He couldn’t know Harry’s darkest secrets.

Harry moved away from the windows, conscious of how exposed he was, in view of the street. He still refused to meet Malfoy’s eye. There was a moment, he knew, when he could, should, say something. But Harry said nothing. The moment – whatever it had been – ended when Malfoy reached forward, for one of the curtains right by his hand, glaring a challenge at Harry before wiping his cock on the faded damask, leaving a slicked mark across their centre. His mouth was tight as he dressed, and he Apparated away without a word.

Harry looked around the room. There was nothing there. Only the scent of sex and the mark on the curtains. He held his hand to his face, smelling Malfoy. Tentatively, he licked his fingers, remembering the hot and hungry kisses they’d shared. Harry sank down to sit on the floor. What had he done? What was wrong with him? He _hated_ Malfoy, and yet… Harry bowed his head. He felt worse now than he had before. Closing his eyes, his mind went back to the memory of Malfoy on the Astronomy Tower, lowering his wand, and Malfoy’s trapped look as he failed to identify Harry at the Manor. Did he really hate Malfoy? He didn’t know. Despised? Pitied? 

He sat in the dark for a long time before he was ready to go back to his blank little room.

:::::

It was a form of torture, Harry decided, being constantly bombarded by his memories of that night. His lips could still feel Malfoy’s mouth, pressing against him and moving with need. His arms still felt stretched and bound, an ache across his armpits, the sting of Malfoy’s nails down his chest. Wanking didn’t help: if anything, it left him feeling more empty than before. At least he was suspended this week, because Harry didn’t know what he’d do once he was partnered up with Malfoy. Harry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He was trying to study, but to be honest the words in the books weren’t making much sense.

A knock at his bedroom door gave him an excuse to leave his desk, but Harry stepped back in surprise when he saw that it wasn’t Neville checking up on him again, but Lavender on the other side.

“Harry.” 

“Lavender. I – come in.” Harry held the door open, then settled himself on his bed, leaving the one chair free for Lavender. She didn't say anything, just wandered over to his desk and picked up his copy of _Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts_. She flicked through it, her fingers lingering over the inscription signed by both Remus and Sirius.

“Were you close to them, then?” she asked. Harry nodded, and she sat down, the book still cradled in her lap.

“Sirius was my godfather. Remus… looked out for me. And now I’m godfather to his son.” Harry thought of his little godson, both parents dead, exactly like him. It hurt too much to think about for any length of time, and he closed his eyes, trying to forget the sight of Andromeda Tonks with grief marking her face and a wailing baby in her arms.

“Losing people is difficult, Harry.” Lavender was so soft-spoken he could barely hear her words. He leant forward. “Look, I came to see you because I had an interesting chat with Hermione last week. I– I didn’t realise that you were finding things difficult.” 

Harry felt his world turning upside down. Lavender was coming to give _him_ advice? He’d seen her when she wouldn’t talk to anyone, when she jumped if anyone came near or she heard a loud noise. He frowned, but she was still looking at the book, sitting quietly, and didn’t seem to notice.

“Lots of us lost people in the war,” he said. “I’m nothing special.”

“I never said you were.” Lavender’s calm words shocked Harry. That wasn’t how people normally responded to him. “You were really just another seventeen-year old thrust into events bigger than any of us should have dealt with. I wear my scars here,” she said, pointing at her face. “And I’ve had no choice but to deal with them, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning, I wouldn’t be able to get on with my life. I think that many of us carry scars elsewhere, out of sight.”

Harry sighed, weighed down again by the thought of all the loss, and by the truth he could hear in her words. “I know.”

“I’m not only here to talk to you about loss. Or scars.” Lavender put the book down on his desk. “Hermione said that you’ve got some issues with Draco Malfoy.” Harry felt ice-cold prickles travel down his back. How did Hermione know? He leant forward as his chest tightened. And then he realised that she didn’t mean kissing or sex, but fighting and hatred, and he relaxed a fraction, resting back against the wall behind him.

“Malfoy?” He managed to keep his voice steady.

“Did you know that he came to see me, when I was in hospital?”

Harry shook his head.

“He came to see me when I wouldn’t talk to anyone. When I couldn’t look in a mirror without crying. He– we talked. We talked.” She paused. “He apologised.”

“He–“

“It wasn’t easy for either of us, and he didn’t _have_ to visit me, but he did. For weeks.” She fixed Harry with a steely glare. “Whatever you think about him, you’re probably wrong. That’s what I came here to tell you. During the war, you were brave. He was a coward. But since then? He’s changed.” She stood up. “I would love to stay and chat properly, Harry, but I’m going to visit the friend who _did_ come and see me when I was recovering. Not the one who didn’t.”

Lavender let herself out of the room, leaving Harry open-mouthed and alone. Half-formed thoughts were tumbling through his mind, and he found it hard to hold on to anything for long enough to make sense of it. Lavender had told him off. Malfoy had apologised. He saw, again, the anger in Malfoy’s eyes, and Harry groaned. He’d made a huge mess of this, exactly like he did with everything. Something… he didn’t even know how to describe it. Something had happened between him and Malfoy, and they hated each other, but maybe he’d got Malfoy wrong.

He remembered what Malfoy had said to him, the first time they’d spoken on the roof – probably their only real conversation, to be honest – and he felt, all of a sudden, the truth of it, deep in his bones. He had been bumbling through this past year, and he was doing exactly what Malfoy had said: throwing away everything. He did want to be an Auror, but you’d never guess, the way he behaved. He just… it had been….

Harry curled up into a ball, and let it flow over him. It was too much to understand, but as the day gradually darkened, he began to see it a little more clearly.

From the moment he’d found out about Voldemort’s existence, it had been easy. Not what he had to do, or the fear or the challenges, but having a sense of purpose to his life. Not necessarily to kill Voldemort, but to exist in opposition to him. For Harry, the mere act of being alive had been enough to do this. He could see now, he needed to be an Auror to know that there was still Darkness out there, and if there was, then he knew who he was.

He could also see how he’d been looking down on the training sessions, the talks, even the other Aurors. Because what did they know? Had they died? Had they seen into Voldemort’s soul? Harry felt shame, hot and bitter, sweep through him. For all that he couldn’t work without a team to back him up, perhaps his real weakness was that he pushed people away and only focused on himself. He really was no hero if he could think like that.

Maybe… maybe it wasn’t only Malfoy who he hated, after all.

:::::

The first day back after his suspension was hellish. Harry had known it would be, but this time when he saw Malfoy, all he could think about was the way his face pinked up when he came, and the way the moon had painted him silver. Heat flooded his face, and he avoided looking again, instead examining the blank, beige wall opposite. They were both sitting outside Hestia’s office, waiting to find out exactly how they were going to be partnered up. He suspected she was making them wait on purpose.

He didn’t know what to say, but he knew he had to say _something_. “I—“

“Can we not? Please?” Malfoy’s voice was sharp, strained. “I want to forget it ever happened. You can stop worrying about it. I won’t mention it, and I won’t bother you any more. You’ve made it perfectly clear that it’s not a path either of us are going to go down. I was mistaken in thinking it was.” He turned his back to Harry. It felt as if they were sitting miles apart, not next to each other. Harry swallowed, more than a little stung by the reaction. Although he knew that deep down he’d been expecting this, or something like it.

Harry continued to stare at the rather unexciting wall. He wanted to fix this, all of it, but he didn’t know how. Any further attempts at conversation were mercifully avoided when Hestia opened her door and ushered them in.

:::::

If Harry had thought that his memories of Malfoy’s naked flesh were torture, he was wrong. This was far worse: spending almost every day with him, watching him train, listening to him think through problems. He’d assumed that Malfoy was a bit of a prick for so long now that it was strange to find out that he wasn’t. Not only because of what Lavender had said, but also because… Harry realised he’d never really given Malfoy a chance before.

Not Malfoy, Draco, Harry reminded himself. Hestia had been quite clear about the name issue. _Draco_ was polite but distant to Harry, and Harry hated it. He wanted a bit of fight, a bit of fire. A strong hand on his wrist. He missed _Malfoy_.

“Harry, I think that if you work on your wand movement, you’ll find the charm works properly.” They had extra work assigned to them, and one of their tasks was to help the other with something they found tricky. Draco was helping Harry with his Doppelganger Charm, and Harry had offered to help Draco with his Defensive magic, the Patronus in particular.

It wasn’t going well. Not the magic part – that was fine – but the stilted conversation and awkward silences were getting a little hard to bear. 

“Like this?”

“No. More of a sideways movement before the upward flick.” Draco motioned with his hand as he spoke. Harry had a go but Draco shook his head. “Look, like this,” he said, bringing his hand to Harry’s arm. 

Harry froze, and Draco stopped moving too. Harry nodded that yes, Draco could touch him. Slim fingers wrapped over the back of his hand, and for a second, Harry felt dizzy. He took a deep breath, and dared a glance at Draco’s face. It was set in determined lines, a slight frown on his brow.

“Like this,” Draco said, and he moved Harry’s hand through the air. He let go and stepped back, but Harry could still feel the clasp of his fingers.

With difficulty Harry turned his attention back to the spell. “ _Gemino Hominum!_ ” He tried his best to emulate the movement Draco had just shown him. Harry jumped back in surprise when a copy of himself, non-shadowy and looking as real as he did, sprang out of the end of his wand. He turned to Draco, a grin spreading over his face, unable to contain his glee. “I did it!”

Draco smiled. “You did,” he said. He looked over at the Doppelganger. “Uncanny really, having two Potters around like that.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure if I like it.”

It took some effort to maintain the spell, and Harry quickly tired, the Doppelganger fading from sight. When he looked back at Draco, there was still a small smile on his face. 

“Well you’re going to have to put up with it, because I’ve got to do that again.” Harry was still filled with joy that he had he had finally cast the spell, but his smile softened as he spoke again. “Thanks, for helping me… I wish I’d asked you sooner.” He paused, and looked Draco straight in the eye. “And it’s Harry. Two Harrys. Not two Potters.”

“I was happy to help,” Draco said, with a small bow of his head. “Harry.” It was strange. As soon as Draco had said ‘Harry’, his smile had faltered.

Harry was torn between wanting to forget, wanting to ignore that part of himself that had loved being pinned, loved his arms twisted in his t-shirt and at Draco’s mercy, and wanting to do it all again. He didn’t know if he wanted Draco to smile or scowl, or push him or kiss him, but every moment they spent together it became clearer that he wanted a chance to make all those things happen. But of course Draco kept pushing him away.

:::::

“So why did you do it?” Hestia’s eyes narrowed slightly as she leant forward. They were stood over a smoking crater in the ground, amongst the trees. Harry could see that it didn’t exactly look good that he’d just shot a fireball at the ‘suspect’ he and Draco had been tracking.

“I, er, I know it’s not exactly standard practice,” Harry said, but Hestia waved her hand as if knowing that he was stalling for time. “But Draco said that the blast waves were potentially a helpful side effect to using the Confringo spell, so I thought I’d try it out.”

“In a simulation? Untested?” Hestia raised an eyebrow. Harry flushed, because put like that it did seem a little risky.

“Well, yeah. Draco doesn’t make things up. And, er—“

“You had enough faith in his abilities to risk something new?” Hestia’s voice was almost as sharp as her gaze.

“I– I guess…”

“And how did you know that you wouldn’t blow us _all_ up?”

“I couldn’t let Draco get hit again! That Leg-Locker curse caught him straight-on. He couldn’t get away, and I could see that he was trying to shield me, but he wasn’t going to last the attack.”

“So you acted without thinking it through? Again?”

Harry flushed, feeling caught out. At the time it had felt like the right thing to do, but now, with Hestia questioning his every move and decision, it was hard to hold onto that certainty. He cast his mind back to Draco as he’d looked across at Harry, eyes widened a fraction, then cast the perfect shield over himself, letting the blast knock his assailant over. Realising that he stood by his actions, Harry nodded. “I know it sounds like a bit of a leap, but yeah, I knew it would work.”

“Because…”

“Because I knew that Draco would know what to do! He’s no fool, and he taught me that trick in the first place! And I had to do something: we were going to both get taken out. And… I didn’t want to finish the exercise without him. “ He paused. “I know it wasn’t necessary for both of us to complete it, but it was important that we did. He was putting himself in danger to help me: I wasn’t going to let him take a hit because of that.”

Hestia looked like she was about to say something, but then she shook her head. She took a deep breath. “Only you, Harry, would save someone by shooting a bloody big fireball at them!”

At this, Harry did look a little sheepish. But when he got to the edge of the trees, Draco was waiting for him.

“Thanks,” Draco said, his hands jammed into his pockets. “I could hear her shouting. But you did the right thing. And... well, thank you, for thinking of me too.” His words were quiet, and he didn’t wait for a response, walking off with quick steps. Harry stared after him, unable to explain exactly why his heart was beating so fast. But then everything about Draco confused him.

:::::

Draco loved the Poisons and Antidotes course. Not surprisingly, Harry thought, but it was one aspect of training that he’d struggled with all year, and even though he was working with a knowledgeable partner he still didn’t enjoy it. Their current task was to match poisons to antidotes. There were vials for them to examine under the light, and descriptions of symptoms cards with gruesome photos attached. Some of the vials of poison were spelled shut, due to the danger of their fumes. Others they were able to sniff.

“That one smells like socks.”

“Are you always this ridiculous?” Draco had his arms folded.

“I try.?”

“Well do you have to try quite so hard? I don’t want to mess this up.” Harry enjoyed getting some kind of a reaction from Draco, but he could see how Draco was beginning to get anxious. It was clear in the way he kept looking down at the vials, then back up at Harry.

“As if you’re going to go wrong with this!”

“Well, _I_ probably won’t, but you’re my partner, remember? You can still mess up half of this.”

“Hey! I’m not that bad at this, you know.”

Their talk was light, and they were always able to keep things civil, but inside Harry was dying a little. As each day passed, he began to regret that his thing with Draco – whatever it had been – had ended so quickly, and so badly. Draco, it seemed, was determined to never mention it; despite these odd moments of thaw, he was generally fairly cool towards Harry, and it was driving Harry wild. At night, unable to stop himself, Harry found himself thinking of Draco more often than not. And not just the feeling of his hand clasped tight on Harry’s side, or the sight of his eyes half-closed as he lost himself to sensation, but also the way he would get back up again no matter what life threw at him. Draco wasn’t quite who Harry had thought he was. He was unapologetic, confident yet highly anxious about proving his worth, and almost completely alone. But then based on his late-night imaginings, Harry wasn’t quite who he thought he was either. Not as straight; not as straight-forward, either.

Looking at the vials in a row in front of them, Harry felt a stab of trepidation. He glanced over at Draco, but his face was blank. The bastard was deliberately not giving him any clues. Right. He only needed to work out half of them, and he was going first so he couldn’t even accuse Draco of taking the easy ones first.

“You already know, don’t you?” Harry said. 

Draco gave him an incredulous look. “Of course. But what we need is for _you_ to know.”

Harry ran through what he knew in his head: colour, viscosity, odour, flecks. The first checks. He examined each vial, opened the ones he could, and looked at the cards. He didn’t think about moonlight, or fabric tight across his face. Instead he concentrated, determined to finally make progress in his training.

Draco’s smile when he correctly identified the poisons and the antidotes replaced all the other memories that night.

:::::

“Happy birthday, Draco.” Harry stood with his hands in his pockets. He had known that Draco’s birthday was coming up, but hadn’t known how to mark it. If they were friends he’d offer to go buy him a drink, take him to the pub, but they weren’t friends, not exactly.

“A few of us are going to the pub tonight,” said Draco, interrupting Harry’s thoughts. “If you want to come, you can.” Harry was as confused as ever. Maybe– maybe Draco could think of him as a friend. Although maybe that wasn’t what Harry wanted, any more. He said he’d come, and then spent the rest of the day trying to work out what it meant. Who was ‘a few of us’, and why had Draco asked him? He just didn’t know. 

:::::

The pub was busy. Draco, it appeared, had more friends than he thought. He certainly looked shocked to see so many people waiting for him.

Lavender was ignoring Ron trying not to stare at her scars, Neville was talking to Megan and Su, and Pansy Parkinson was sitting with a drink in her hand, talking to Greg Goyle. When she saw Harry her face suffused with red, and she hung her head down, hiding amongst her hair.

“You should go talk to her,” said Draco. Harry stared at him. “Oh, I’m not asking you to forgive her being a selfish cow, I just think you should hear what she has to say.”

And so, while Draco was bought more drinks than he could ever manage, Harry sat down at the table with the two former Slytherins. No one spoke.

“Draco told me to talk to you.” Still nothing. Harry took a sip of his butterbeer, glanced over at Draco, who was watching them, and tried again. “Nice weather we’ve been having.”

Pansy raised her eyes. “You don’t have to,” she said. “Talk to me, that is.”

“Well actually, he said that perhaps you might want to talk.” Harry nodded over at Draco, who suddenly seemed to find Ron’s story very interesting and looked away from them.

Harry was surprised that Draco didn’t rub the back of his head in pain with the look that Pansy directed towards him. “Oh, did he? Bastard.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. “Look, Potter, I’ll say this quickly, and then you can go off with all your Auror friends and Greg and I can sneak off once we’ve bought Draco a drink. Although it does look like he doesn’t really need any more.” She took a deep breath, and drained her glass. “I’m sorry for trying to sell you out. I was scared. I’m not noble like you and your friends. I do tend to mostly think about myself, first and foremost. I– I don’t think I can change who I am, but I still shouldn’t have done it.”

“Er.” Harry’s brain was trying to take this all in. “Ok.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad no one helped me. I’m glad you got rid of… him. And—” she picked up her glass, and frowned as she remembered that it was empty “— for some reason, that idiot over there is quite glad you’re still around. Just don’t… he’s more vulnerable than he looks. I can’t even imagine how much energy it takes for him to out-Gryffindor you all every day.” She shuddered, but her eyes were bright as she watched Draco talking. “And now, my glass appears to be empty. Greg, be a love and get me another. And one for Potter, too.” She opened her purse and pulled out some coins. “There you go.” 

Goyle sighed, put down his still-full pint, and headed off to the bar.

Harry shook his head. “You really are… well, you know, what you said.”

“Selfish? Yes. But that doesn’t mean I’m not worth knowing.” She gave Harry an amused look. “We’re all more than we appear, didn’t you know? And we’re defined by more than what other people think.” She paused. “Do you know, I think I might need to powder my nose. Would you be a dear and wait for Greggy to get back? Thank you,” she said, and she rose and headed off into the crowd.

Harry was left by himself. With nothing to do but watch Draco, of course. Well, it was his birthday. And he did look… like he could stalk across the room at any moment, and push Harry back against a table, and push a hand under his robes and—

Draco looked over at Harry. The look in his eyes was… hungry. And fierce. Harry had seen it before, in the moonlight. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. Draco was watching him as if he didn’t regret anything that had happened. It was the look which had so infuriated Harry, so often, but which he hadn’t seen for weeks now. He’d always taken it to be one of pride, one which spoke of a lack of remorse. But now… now he saw it differently. It was the look of a man who had finally made a choice about his life. A man who knew what he wanted. Harry couldn’t breathe: the look was directed at him. The room was too noisy, too busy. Too many people.

“Are you OK?”

Harry looked up. Greg was standing above him with a tray of drinks. It was beyond Harry to utter much beyond a garbled word that could have been ‘Yes’. Or ‘No’. He stood, pushing the table back as he did so, his butterbeer spilling on the table. “Air… need air,” he managed to say, before staggering towards the nearest door. 

The corridor leading to the pub toilets was quiet, compared to the main bar. Harry leant up against the wall, taking in deep breaths, trying to still the shaking in his hands, the dizziness of his head. He closed his eyes, focusing on easing the sense of tightness in his chest.

The door swung open, and Harry turned his head away, not really wanting to talk to anyone. A soft touch on his arm made him look up though. It was Draco.

“Harry…” Draco’s fingers slid along his arm, to his wrist, and then he moved to grasp Harry’s arm in in an almost painful hold. Almost. “I saw you looking at me. You looked… like a man who knew what he wanted.” 

“Yes,” whispered Harry. “I know what I want.” Draco’s other hand moved to the back of Harry’s neck, into his hair. Harry’s hand moved to Draco’s side, and round to his back. He could feel the heat of Draco’s skin beneath his shirt, and he pulled Draco closer, until their bodies were flush.

He licked his lips, noting how Draco’s eyes followed his tongue. He could hear Draco’s breathing, open-mouthed, shallow.

Harry leant his head forward a fraction, and their lips met, sweet and warm and tasting of butterbeer. The kiss was full of hunger, but something else too: there was a recognition there, that this was one kiss, and that there would be others. More. 

As their heads fell back, Draco sighed. “I think you might just have figured it out, after all.”

“I want you,” Harry said. “I don’t know why I couldn’t see that before.”

“Because you’ve been wallowing in self-pity with your head up your arse?”

“That’s what I want,” said Harry.

“Your head up your—“

“No.” Harry shook his head. “I want to leave the self-pity behind.”

“I can help you,” said Draco. It wasn’t a question, and he held Harry’s arm back tight, pushing his hips into Harry, pressing him against the wall. Desire prickled through Harry, and he ground his hips into Draco. At some point very soon Draco was going to pin him down, he knew it. The thought made him groan.

“Yes. Yes you can,” whispered Harry. He could admit it: he wanted it, he needed it, the way Draco could make him feel. Draco’s breath was hot on his face as he pulled close again, and this kiss was deeper, almost leisurely. They took their time to get to know one another, finding a rhythm that the rest of their bodies wanted to match.

A door clanged open, but they ignored it. 

“I see you’ve got your birthday present, Draco.” Pansy’s voice cut through their kiss, and they paused, foreheads touching, eyes closed. Erections pressing into each other. “I really don’t think there’s anything I could have got you that you’d even notice at this point.” She was quiet for a second, and Harry wondered why she didn’t leave them alone. He had to get Draco alone, and soon. “I owe both of you, so just go. Find a room, and enjoy your birthday. I’ll… explain.”

Harry didn’t need telling twice, and he Apparated Draco back to his room, casting a quick locking charm on the door for good measure.

Before Draco could throw Harry down onto the bed, Harry put a hand on Draco’s chest. “Wait. There’s one thing.”

“What?”

“Don’t you dare wipe your cock on these curtains.”

Draco stared at Harry, then at the hideous orange and brown curtains, then burst into laughter. A warm bubble of relief rose up in Harry. This wasn’t like last time. It was still hot and a little desperate, but the same hate wasn’t there. Something had changed: it took him a moment to realise what. _He_ had changed.

They tumbled onto the bed together, legs entwined, arms reaching for each other. Their hands sought out skin, running under shirts and robes. Harry marvelled at just how hot Draco’s thin body always felt. Whenever he thought of Draco, that was the word which came to mind: heat. Heat and something else. Strength. He pulled him close, closer. It didn’t feel close enough, and he fumbled for buttons, but Draco stopped him.

“Patience,” he whispered, and he kissed Harry again. It was a long, slow kiss, agonising in its pace. Harry felt as if he were melting into it, and after an initial burst of frustration, Harry forgot about undressing Draco. He wanted this kiss to go on and on.

They kissed with murmurs to punctuate, words about skin and touch, about want and need. Draco rolled on top of Harry, pressing his thigh down to part Harry’s legs, rubbing against Harry’s aching cock. His hands found Harry’s arms, and pinned him down, and Harry couldn’t help the soft cry of relief that came with the sensation. A slow, proud smile curved across Draco’s lips.

“I knew it,” he whispered. “You love this, don’t you?”

Harry nodded. “So much.” Draco simply bent his head down in response, and brought his hot mouth to Harry’s neck, making him squirm but keeping him pinned in place and he licked and kissed and sucked.

Cooling saliva soothed the newly-stinging skin on Harry’s neck as Draco finally pulled up. And then, still holding Harry down with his body weight, Draco began to remove his own clothes. After tugging away at his t-shirt, Draco moved forward to kiss Harry again, in almost a bite of hunger. Then he sat back up, pulling Harry with him. They focused on removing their tops, Harry feeling both light and bereft without Draco’s weight on top of him.

Harry’s new-found sense of lightness disappeared as he saw the thin white scars, running down Draco’s chest. “I did this,” he whispered, running his hand along the largest scar. 

Draco brought his hand to cover Harry’s. “You did.”

“I never said sorry.”

“You didn’t.”

“You never say sorry.”

“Not to you.” Draco smiled wryly.

“Was it because of… this?” Harry asked, moving his hand along the smooth lines again.

“Yes. And no. I decided… I decided I could spend the rest of my life being sorry, bowing and scraping and taking whatever the wizarding world deigned to give me. A kick of the boot probably.” He shook his head. “Or I could set my own path. Not look back, and live my life as it should be lived.”

“Why is it different with me?”

This time Draco reached up and ran a finger along the zig-zag of Harry’s lightning bolt scar. “We all have our scars, Harry.”

“That’s what Lavender said.”

“Well, she would know, wouldn’t she?” Draco moved his hand down to Harry’s chest, brushing over the circular scar from the locket. “But what intrigues me about you is the way you carry so many scars, inside and out. I don’t think you even realise that you do, though.”

“Why would you _like_ that about me?”

“It just seems more real, to me,” said Draco. 

“Why like this though?” said Harry, running his hand over Draco’s chest again.

“Why not?” Draco tugged Harry close again and kissed him, with a fierce possessiveness that made Harry tingle to his toes. “You strike me as being one of those things in life worth making an effort for.”

“Oh,” said Harry. And then he decided to show Draco that he, too, was quite capable of making an effort. He slid down onto the floor. “I do believe it’s your birthday today.” He palmed Draco’s cock. “I’ve not done this before but I—“

“Enough with the talking, Potter. Get on with it.” Draco unbuttoned his flies and Harry pulled off his trousers then, a little self-conscious at Draco’s gaze, removed his own. “Potter,” Draco repeated, part impatient moan and part order. Harry settled between his legs. _Potter_. Harry got such a thrill from hearing that. Draco sounded so… bossy.

It was and it wasn’t like Harry had imagined it, licking the soft skin, feeling the warmth, the hardness under his tongue. But he knew that it felt right: finally, something in his life felt right. When Draco threaded fingers through his hair, tightening them into a hold which stung Harry’s scalp, he had to stop his mouth moving for a moment as his hips involuntarily bucked. There was another “Potter” at this, and he forced himself to keep moving. He had been thinking of the tight pulling of his hair, since that first fight with Draco. As Harry hummed in pleasure, Draco groaned.

Harry realised that he loved it, the feel of a heavy cock in his mouth. He loved having Draco’s hands in his hair, and he redoubled his efforts until Draco was moaning softly, then tightened his grip, holding Harry’s head close, until the pull on his hair hurt. 

Draco came in hot spurts, and it was messy and wonderful all at once.

Later, Wwith his arms pinned down above the bed as Draco wanked him off while sucking on his neck, relishing the feeling of freedom and skin-tingling arousal while he twisted with pleasure, Harry decided that everything would be different from now on.

:::::

“So, you and Malfoy then,” said Ron. 

“Draco.”

“I never thought you’d be the one correcting me.”

“I have been calling him Draco for a while now.” Harry drew his feet up onto the bed.

“Yes,” said Ron. “But not doing whatever else it is you two get up to.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” Harry felt vulnerable talking about his… whatever it was with Draco, openly like this. He was also uncertain, not sure what to do if his friend disapproved. They were sitting in Ron’s room which, much like his room at the Burrow, was rather orange with posters and a little distracting with waving Quidditch players. Harry realised exactly how little he’d done to make his own room feel like home. But maybe that was because he knew it was only temporary, and he wanted to wait until he could put down some proper roots.

Ron looked thoughtful. “I’m glad to see you happy, mate. And, er, well you and Draco have always had something going on, haven’t you?”

“But Gin—“

“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe she was right to call it a day when she did?” Ron’s words stopped Harry dead. _Oh_. “I mean none of us knew you’d end up with Draco, but settling down with her? It was never going to happen.”

“Maybe not,” said Harry, reluctant to dwell on whatever his relationship with Ginny had or had not been. He still wasn’t sure himself, although he did know that she’d never made him feel quite the way Draco did. “But are you sure you’re OK with this?”

“Yes, I am. I’d trust him with my life on the field, so I reckon I can trust him with my best friend.” 

Warmth spread through Harry at these words. “Thank you. And, er, sorry for being so moody, all this time.”

Ron smiled. “I don’t think you’ve got the monopoly on being the moody one. And if there’s one reason to like you being with Draco, it’s because I feel like I’ve got my friend back. Plus it’s great to see you finally kicking a bit of arse on training.” Harry smiled back, happy to be feeling at ease with Ron again, and with his training, of course. 

The satisfied glow hadn’t faded when Draco and Neville knocked on the door half an hour later, four cups of tea bobbing along behind them. They settled into a study session, Draco keeping one firm hand on Harry’s foot, grounding him throughout.

:::::

The large training room was filled with mirrors. Draco sucked in a breath and muttered the word ‘cliché’, and Harry had to fight not to smile. The small group of trainees – Harry, Draco, Ron, Neville, Megan and Su– had been told that they were to work together to find their mentors, who were all hidden in the room

Harry ran through the main areas of training: concealment, poisons, tracking, practical defence, Dark Magic theory, and advanced charms. He tried to see more than the room and the mirrors: what were they trying to test or teach them here? He thought of Malfoy, and glanced over to see him coolly surveying the room. _Think like Draco_ , he told himself. _See the bigger picture._

“Let’s search the room in pairs,” Harry said, keeping his voice low. The others nodded. “Draco?”

Draco nodded, and indicated which way to go with his head.

“Ok then.”

Instead of diving in, Harry made the effort to quickly communicate exactly where they’d look. They both had their wands out, making sure they covered themselves and each other. They knew from experience just how fond all their instructors were of Stunners.

It was disorienting, moving between the mirrors. Harry decided that this exercise was about how they processed visual information. And other information, too: he signalled to Draco to stop, and listened carefully. He could hear someone moving, out of sight, to his left. Draco nodded, slowly, obviously having heard the same noise. They began to track the few footsteps and robe swishes they heard, taking care to remain as near to silent as possible themselves.

Everywhere that Harry looked, there were reflections of him and Draco. He focused on the way that Draco moved, checking constantly that Draco was nearby, sensing his presence rather than relying on sight alone. A movement and a flash of black caught his eye. And obviously it had caught Draco’s too, for his arm shot up, holding Harry back. Harry waited, even as they both saw Su edge out from behind one of the mirrors. Her face was set in grim lines, just mouthing ‘Megan, Stunned’. They moved into a group of three then, searching through the room together.

They spotted Hestia, along with Savage, in a corner. Harry couldn’t be certain that they in turn hadn’t been seen, but nothing happened so he continued to look around him, checking with the others. The hairs on the back of his neck rose up at the constant pressure of searching and being watched.

A stumble had them all spinning round, in time to see Ron narrowly dodging a Stunner as he came out from behind a mirror, Neville following closely behind. “Savage,” he said, his voice tight with nerves. Draco met Harry’s eyes: Ron had come from the other direction to Hestia and Savage.

“There’s two of them!” Su said. As she spoke, the shadows of passing people flitted in Harry’s peripheral vision. He watched as short dark hair – Hestia it looked like – wove her way closer, as another Hestia worked her way in the opposite direction. His mind spun.

“Polyjuice!”

“A Doppelganger!”

There were several whispered suggestions all at once. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw one of the Hestias raise her wand, and his mind alighted on the perfect solution. He shook his head briefly at the other trainees as he raised his wand, quickly glancing at the copies. Su, Ron and Draco nodded, and they waited as he cast a spell.

“ _Evanesco Imago!”_

The Hestia bearing the wand disappeared, and Harry quickly turned and disarmed the other. It didn’t take long, with any uncertainty over who was real or not disappearing along with the copies , for the trainees to disarm or capture the other mentors.

Once his wand was returned to him, Savage Vanished all the mirrors with a flick of his wand. The room was suddenly empty, only a group of people left, eyes wide with surprise.

“What was that?” Malfoy looked at Harry as if he’d sprung an extra head.

“The Gemino Counter-Curse,” Harry said.

“That’s not on the course,” said Su. All the attention in the room seemed to focus in on Harry with her words, and he swallowed, aware suddenly of everyone staring at him . “When I was trying to learn to cast a Doppelganger, I remember Ron saying something about the counter-spell, and I looked it up. Turns out the general Gemino counter-spell works just as well with the Doppelganger charm. I thought it might be useful.”

A slow smile spread across Hestia’s face, and she glanced across at Savage before turning back to Harry. “You did it, Harry. You showed us what you could really do.”

“Did I say something about a counter-spell? I don’t remember that,” said Ron, frowning as he tried to remember. “But that was incredible, Harry.”

Heat spread through Harry, a mix of relief and something else. Pride, perhaps, or even happiness. He _had_ done it. All by himself.

“You used magic, and you saw the bigger picture,” said Draco. He shook his head. “Now I’m going to have to try twice as hard to keep ahead.”

“Something tells me you’ll cope.” Harry knew how much Draco loved a challenge. And suddenly, so did he. Harry was going to be a great Auror. For the first time, he believed it.


End file.
